Prey and Predator
by wcgreen
Summary: I have been down this road twice before. I don't think I can survive another trip, but now I know I don't have a choice." Follows "Defiant Ones" and completes the series.
1. Three Dinners at Rocco's

_Osser- _Yiddish for forbidden  
IWB- Inside Waistband carry (for concealed weapons)  
Any departures from actual NYPD procedures are meant to serve the purposes of this story.  
Rob Dolan is from the L&O episode "Ghost"

Warning: there are some bad words in this chapter.

Dinner #1 at Rocco's  
4th Avenue  
Brooklyn, NY  
21 July

The tableau was the same as at Nick's Pizzeria on Sunday: Joe Fontana, this time in a tangerine golf shirt worn untucked, seated in a booth to the right of the door, Randolph J. Dworkin, in a rumpled brown suit with his tie loosened, across the table from him. The space between the two men was covered with silverware, water glasses, a plate holding a slice of cheese pizza, a legal pad, and two manila folders. Dworkin's briefcase occupied the space next to him.

Other than semi-polite greetings and Dworkin's food order, nothing had been said by either man. The attorney had busied himself with his pizza and his papers. Fontana was staring at the door, lost in his thoughts.

_It's been almost a week and not a damn thing has been fixed... Monday, I had to go to the Oh-One and voucher my off-duty piece... thankfully, I know the desk sergeant, and he didn't question my turning in only one weapon.. I gave Judith the good stuff with the 'sales' paperwork dated from before I got canned..._

The snub-nosed .38 at his waist and the P232 in his ankle holster had never been registered so Joe had felt no need to mention them to his friend at the First Precinct.

_I'm risking three and a half upstate because of the calls and mail I'm getting—not that I have anything to worry about from them... besides, all my slacks are tailored for a IWB carry... without the .38, they look terrible..._

Dworkin gestured at his pizza.

"I don't get you, Fontana. You keep scheduling our meetings at restaurants, but you never order anything."

Fontana sneered at his attorney.

_I told you last time, I don't want to eat with you... I'm here because I'm meeting Judith for dinner, and you're here because you wanted to see me right away... if this is so urgent, then why waste my time eating?_

When Joe did not reply, Randy Dworkin took another bite of his slice.

"I mastered the art of pizza eating at Harvard," he said. "Notice how none of the sauce or cheese ever lands on an important paper. That was my main take-away from first-year law—professors may not read every paper, but they do check for food stains. Tomato on my notes—okay. Tomato on my briefs—_osser_."

Joe slammed his hand palm-down on the table, letting its impact make his point.

"Just tell me what you found and be quick about it."

Dworkin smiled at his client.

"So abrupt. So dour. Very well, I'll be the same."

He set his half-eaten slice on its plate and turned down the corners of his mouth. His shoulders sagged and his head slumped over his pizza.

"Fontana," he said in a glum voice, "you're screwed."

Joe snorted at the attempted humor, but Dworkin did not smirk back.

"This time," he insisted, "I'm not kidding. Those complaints I read you on Sunday? They're in your personnel file, but no record of them exists in IAB's files, nor in the files of the Employee Management Division. None of the programs for tracking problem officers has ever heard of these complaints or of you—except by reputation, which somehow always seems to precede you."

Fontana stared at him blankly for a moment.

"You saying these complaints exist, but not officially?"

Dworkin nodded, the glum frown still in place.

"Every one of the standard NYPD procedures for handling complaints of harassment or abuse was disregarded for you. Complaints were filed, but they went only into your jacket—they were never acted upon. Now, can you explain why this might be?"

Joe lifted both hands in an expressive shrug.

"I remember the names you mentioned—Dolan, Reyes, Petrovich—but I had no idea anyone but Dolan had filed a complaint against me and Dolan was years ago. Most perps, they just bluff. They never go through with it."

_Threats from humps are nothing but hot air... that's been true for over thirty years... nothing to worry about then... nothing to worry about now..._

Dworkin regarded him with a thoughtful frown.

"Well, these nine 'perps' filed complaints," he told Joe, "complaints that no one did anything about, complaints that somehow got lost in the system. Now, why would multiple complaints from nine separate individuals get lost like that?"

Joe stared Dworkin straight in his eye.

"I don't know."

_And don't say it's my fault... I had nothing to do with this..._

Dworkin ignored Fontana's wounded sensibilities. He glanced at the tables nearby, but the nearest diner had his iPod's earbuds in, and the other couple in the room were busy with their own conversation. To Joe's consternation, the attorney then leaned closer and lowered his voice.

"Fontana, level with me. Did you bribe someone to bury these complaints?"

Joe squared his shoulders and glowered down at the attorney.

"I did not, and I don't like your question."

Dworkin kept his voice low.

"You carry enough cash to carpet Grand Central Station. Are you sure some of it didn't find its way into the pocket of a helpful clerk?

"Look, you little twerp," Joe snarled, "I just answered that question and my answer was 'No!'"

Despite the heat of Fontana's fury, Dworkin held his ground.

"Can you prove it?" he asked.

Joe opened his mouth to reply, but Dworkin's question made clear the threat he was facing. That knowledge closed his throat, and sucked the moisture from his tongue.

_What proof? A photo of me not slipping cash to a clerk? Signed statements from every pencil-pusher in the department saying I never got a favor from them? Hell, the whole damn place runs on favors, but I never asked for this one..._

His white-hot indignation drained away. The chill it left behind felt alarmingly like fear.

"Does the deputy commissioner," Joe asked, "have someone who says I bribed him?"

Dworkin shook his head.

"No, but the burden is on us, not Balzano. That's why you're screwed."

Joe sank back against the booth.

_Balzano will point to the rules and regs that cover discipline for bad cops... he'll claim I got around them somehow... he doesn't have to show how—that's my problem... I get to prove the negative..._

"So, what now?"

Dworkin pursed his lips as he thought.

"If I'm lucky, you tell me that you document every penny you spend. You give me that documentation—day books, receipts, vouchers—whatever you have to show where your cash goes. If I'm truly lucky, your cash withdrawals all tie to that spending so we can prove there are no unexplained cash left over for bribes."

"And," Joe growled, "if you're not lucky?"

"I look stupid at your appeal hearing, and you lose."

"No problem," Joe told him, pulling out his fountain pen and grabbing a loose sheet of blank paper. "Here's the phone number for my accountant. She has everything you need."

Dworkin raised his eyebrows at the name on the paper.

"I know Carol. So, you really do keep records?"

"Damn right I do. I don't mind paying my fair share of taxes, but I refuse to pay one cent more. I have vouchers for every C-note I've slipped a snitch and receipts for every round I've stood. It's all documented."

Dworkin slid the paper into his folder.

"I underestimated you, Fontana, but this doesn't get you off the train. The department brass can claim you have access to other sources of cash. Do you?"

A chill ran down Joe's spine.

_Every time we worked a case in or near a bank, I'd tell Ed how I keep my money in a mattress... now, that stupid joke might bite me in the ass..._

"No," Joe replied, "but who's gonna believe me?"

Dworkin flashed a cherubic smile.

"That, Fontana, is why you're paying my unreasonably high fees."

He made some notes on his legal pad.

"That should do it for now. After I talk to Carol, I'll arrange to have a forensic accountant go through your records. If we can account for all your cash, that will help blunt their claim that you bought your way out of those complaints."

Joe pointed his finger at his attorney's nose.

"It won't explain why those complaints aren't in the system. What about them?"

Dworkin slid the legal pad into his briefcase.

"One step at a time. Let's get proof you're not dirty—then we'll tackle why you're the lucky recipient of a massive bureaucratic error."

Joe thumped his finger on the table by the half-eaten pizza slice.

"Don't you leave until you tell me what my chances are."

Dworkin packed the folders with his legal pad before answering.

"Because of those complaints, the best we can hope for is your reinstatement at rank and pay grade, but under Special Monitoring."

Joe froze with his finger still pressing the table.

"But that's only one step away from termination!"

As he snapped his briefcase shut, Dworkin nodded.

"Given where you are right now, it's not too shabby. Got to go. Thanks for the nosh."

Dinner #2 at Rocco's  
4th Avenue  
Brooklyn, NY  
21 July

_I'm on a date... I'm not on-call and I'm on a date... if nothing blows up and no cases heat up, I might even get to finish a date... damn, I hope so—I'm so sick of getting called in dressed for dates that never happened..._

Olivia Benson mentally crossed her fingers that no perp or uni would get to see her moss green crinkle skirt and sleeveless floral blouse.

_And heels... nothing like working a crime scene in heels... and it's great to wear them and not worry about being taller than my date... I'd have to wear fourteen-inch heels to do that tonight..._

Dave Viks had picked her up at her place in his tan Caravan, a minivan that still had Sunday's soccer gear piled in its cargo area.

"Sorry about the mess, but it's easier to leave it there than to bring it inside," he explained. "This way, Danielle can't 'accidentally' forget it for the next game."

As he drove Olivia back to Brooklyn, Dave also apologized for his choice of clothing.

"I don't usually wear Hawaiian shirts," he said, gesturing at the greens and mauves of the tropical print fabric, "but Danielle bought this for my birthday and she demanded I wear it tonight."

Olivia chuckled, remembering the tomboy whom she had seen kick two goals the previous Sunday.

_I should offer to take her shopping... can't have her growing up thinking green and purple go together..._

"You look fine," she assured Dave. "At least it isn't sequined or jeweled."

After Dave finished shuddering, they spent the drive chatting about kids and team practices until he pulled into a parking space on Fourth Avenue.

"You'll love this place," he said as he opened the passenger door for her. "Third generation family-owned and the best pizza in Brooklyn. My dad took my mother here for their first date, and they ate here twice a month until she passed."

Olivia allowed him to help her from the minivan. Instinct made her scan the locale for threats.

_Storefronts, apartment buildings, parked cars... no one skulking, lurking, or giving marks the once-over..._

She happily slipped out of cop mode and relaxed.

"So," she asked as they walked, "is this place where all the Viks take their dates?"

Dave shook his head.

"Ann was lactose-intolerant. Our first date was Chinese food."

The front door opened at their approach, held for them by an older man in shirt-sleeves and with a plastic take-out bag. Once they were inside, Dave pointed at his departing form.

"You see the grin on that man's face? It proves what I was saying—everyone loves Rocco's."

Inside, Dave was greeted by name by the counterman working his dough. The teenaged hostess asked about Danielle's soccer game as she seated them in a corner booth at the rear of the restaurant. While he took their beer and pizza order, the waiter wondered if Dave's father would be coaching CYO basketball again in the fall. The older woman who brought their mugs and pitcher of Blue Point Summer Ale asked if Lars had enjoyed Cub Scout day camp.

All of them eyed Olivia as though measuring her against the late Ann Viks before they granted their approval with a nod to Dave and a warm smile for her.

_It's like meeting the family... if I took Dave to my local pizza joint, I'll bet no one would recognize me, let alone compare him to former boyfriends... I much prefer this..._

Unfortunately, the mood shifted when Dave asked about work. Her immediate sigh prompted him to ask, "That bad?"

_Oh, yeah... that bad..._

"Our captain," she replied, "decided it was time to shuffle partners. I'm still with Elliot, but he broke up everyone else, and made them trade desks."

_Fin and Couch... Judith and Chester... John and Donna... _

"No one is happy about it."

She punctuated her sentence with a long sip of beer.

"And unhappy people do crappy jobs," Dave noted.

"You said it."

_Fin's digging at Couch like he's trying to find the last straw so he can break it... Couch assumed Judith asked for a new partner because of his concerns about her fitness for duty—since Judith assumed the same about Couch, those two aren't getting along at all... John is still ignoring Fin and vis-versa plus he's pissed at some cracks about his age that Donna made... and he's worried about her ability to back him up on the street—a worry Donna has about John... it's a damn shame, because John worked really well with Jeffries... Chester's still steamed about his transfer... Elliot's had it with Cragen and he's barely tolerating Fin and Couch... if only they'd give each other a chance... but no one seems to have any patience to spare..._

"Running the shift right now," Olivia admitted, "is like negotiating with street gangs. All they want to do is posture and fight. The only bright spot is Judith's phone calls from Fontana."

"How's that?"

"He talks and she tries to get a word in edgewise. We take her words and use them to figure out what's going on between them."

Olivia put her mug down so she could tick off a list on her fingers.

"Today, it was: Chicago, Nick, the Cubs, oh, okay. Everything except 'oh' and 'okay' were questions, and Judith really stressed the 'oh' like she was impressed or enlightened."

"And what did you figure out from all that?"

"Elliot knew that the Cubs have a home game on Judith's next day off. John knows that Fontana's brother is named Nick. Therefore, Judith has agreed to fly to Chicago on her day off to meet her future in-laws and watch the Cubs lose."

Dave grinned as he shook his head in disbelief.

"You're more inventive than we are. For us, it's Buzzword Bingo during staff meetings."

Olivia grinned back.

"I glad we don't do sit-down meetings. Everyone would have to check their weapons at the door."

Their pizza arrived. Conversation ceased as they divvied up slices—pepperoni for her, pepperoni and anchovy for him. Dave's first bite was accompanied by a hum of pure bliss.

Olivia nibbled at her slice.

_It's okay... I mean—crust, tomato sauce, cheese, and sausage—how much variation in flavor can there be? _

She smiled to show Dave she liked it.

"The Greeks were wrong," he said after swallowing. "The gods dined not on ambrosia, but on Rocco's pizzas."

"I think there's a historical problem with that," she told him. "The Italians didn't even get tomatoes until after the Greek gods became myths."

He shooed the fact away with a wave of his slice.

"I never let reality ruin my metaphors. Besides, it's not just the pizza; there's also the person I'm sharing it with."

Olivia felt her cheeks warm from the compliment. Dave smiled back, then went to work on his slice. They ate in silence for a while then he peered at her.

"You know," he said, "when I asked you about work, I thought you'd talk about your cases, not your coworkers."

She smiled in apology.

"Sorry—partner problems are my current worry. The cases—well, they are what they are. Brutalized victims whose lives are ripped apart, and all I can do is try to get justice for them. Stopping the perps before they strike—now, that would do some good, but we're always behind the curve, never in front of it."

Olivia sighed then said, "You learn to cope—you have to, or you break."

Dave peered at her for long enough to make Olivia uncomfortable.

"Cope with it," he finally asked, "or tune it out?"

The question came at her like a slap to the face, but his expression held sincerity, not censure.

_I need to drop the suspicion... just because my unit is at each other's throats doesn't mean Dave is out to get me..._

She deliberately took a sip of her beer to give herself time to form a calm response.

"Why do you ask?"

She took Dave's half-smile as an apology for the personal question.

"Mostly because I see the 'tune it out' response in a lot of the kids we handle. The scientific term is habituation, meaning the decrease in response to a stimulus due to its repetition. A caregiver yells too often, the kid stops hearing it. Too much abuse, the kid stops feeling it. That's one of the reasons abuse escalates; the abuser can't get the needed reaction out of the victim anymore."

Before Olivia could agree with him, Dave continued.

"I also see it in my people. Some of them tune out their clients because they've seen so much hurt and need, they can't respond to it anymore. They're my burn-outs, the ones I need to replace—assuming I can catch it in time, and can get a replacement for them. It doesn't always work out."

He picked up his beer mug as though to drink only to put it back untouched.

"I figured you guys would have the same problem, only worse. At least we see some happy cases—mothers cleaning up their acts and getting their children back, children finding forever homes—for us, it's not all doom and gloom."

Olivia mulled over his comments while she finished her slice.

_The rule of thumb for SVU is 'two years and out,' but Elliot, John, Fin, and me—Chester, too—we've all been around longer than that... are we habituated? Are we fighting amongst ourselves because we've lost our common outrage at what our victims have suffered?_

"I hadn't thought about it like that," she admitted. "My shift recently had some major fallout from an undercover case we worked. Everyone's been blaming that for all the inter-personal shit. Maybe we're blaming the wrong thing."

Dave shrugged then he refilled their mugs from the pitcher.

"Hard for me to say. I do know it's a stupid thing to discuss on a date. How about we change the topic—Giants or Jets?"

The familiar gauntlet of first-date questions brought a smile to Olivia's lips.

"Jets. You?"

"Same here. Now, Yankees or Mets?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm not big on baseball."

"Okay—baseball or hockey?"

She crinkled her nose at the selection. Dave grinned back at her.

"For me, it's football or nothing. I only do soccer because Danielle loves it."

"Sounds good to me," she said. "Movies or plays?"

Dave chuckled. "What's a play? Right now, it's all Disney on DVD."

"DVDs for me, too. Last play I tried to see, I got called in to work a case."

"Bummer," he replied. "Beer or wine?"

Olivia gestured at her mug. "Wine, but it's close."

"Beer with pizza," he told her, "wine with pasta. Alka-Seltzer with Chinese."

She snickered and he joined his laugh to hers.

_I'm really enjoying this... just forget work and live my life... Dave makes it easy to do..._

She stared into his ice blue eyes, and marveled at how the joy in them made her happy.

_I may actually have lucked out with this guy..._

Dinner #3 at Rocco's  
4th Avenue  
Brooklyn, NY  
21 July

Joe grunted in response to Dworkin's departure then he drew his hand back to his lap, and fixed his gaze on the water glass before him.

_Special Monitoring? That's for the rotten apples—the scum that dishonor the badge and stink up the station house... I don't deserve that... I don't deserve any of this... getting tossed out on my keister... my picture in the paper under the headline 'Kid-Killing Cop Gets Canned'... the letters from the humps I busted who saw the paper: 'This made my day'... 'Couldn't happen to a nicer fuckwad'... or the one from Golja—'You're a easy target without the badge'... and that phone message telling me to watch my back 'cause Crespo's thugs are gunning for me... good thing I know how to take care of myself..._

A hand came into his field of vision and snapped its fingers, startling him from his thinking. Joe twisted to his left, ready to chew out the man who had interrupted him.

One look at his face and Joe's stomach lurched.

_Rob Dolan... the guy I tried to collar for his daughter's rape and murder... where the hell did he come from?_

Dolan stood at Joe's shoulder. He was wearing a white short-sleeved dress shirt with its collar open. His left hand held a plastic take-out bag, and his face wore a tight-lipped smirk.

"Detective Fontana," Dolan said in greeting, "or should I say 'ex-Detective Fontana'?"

Joe's gaze darted over the nearby booths. All were now empty.

_I didn't notice them leave... I didn't see Dolan walk up..._

"Or maybe," Dolan continued, his glee growing with every syllable, "you prefer 'the Fontana formerly known as Detective.' The title doesn't matter to me. However I say it, it still sounds damn good."

He slid into the booth opposite Joe and brushed aside Dworkin's plate and silverware. Joe sat as though mesmerized, unable to protest or leave.

_We ruined his life, Salone and me—we decided he had to be guilty, and we overlooked Johnny Zona, the real rapist and killer... I'm the one who reopened the case... I'm the one who put it back in the news... this time, me and Ed found Zona and, after he was convicted, I'm the one who tried to apologize for everything... but I'm the one Dolan can't forgive..._

He stared at Dolan's hands as he pushed the silverware out of his way.

_He could have shot me... that's how sloppy I got... he could have slit my throat—that's how close I let him get to me..._

Another wave of nausea hit him.

"So, Fontana—what brings you to Park Slope?" Dolan asked.

He paused for a reply. When Joe did nothing but swallow, the disdain in Dolan's voice thickened.

"You know, this is a great place to start over again. You can rent a storefront to take the place of your corner office, and run a small business to replace the seven-figure income you once had. You can rent a house that would fit in the foyer of your Park Avenue brownstone, and then you can watch your wife sicken and die in it."

Dolan folded his arms on the table and rested his weight on them. The sneer distorting his mouth and his hate-filled glare gave the lie to his friendly posture.

"And, while you're pretending to enjoy your new life, you can listen to the locals talk behind your back. For me, they discussed how I raped and murdered my own daughter. For you, they'll discuss how you deliberately ruined people for fun and press coverage."

Joe swallowed hard. No response came to mind or to his tongue.

_It wasn't fun and it wasn't for the press... it was because I made a mistake... one you paid for in spades..._

Dolan raised up on his elbows and leaned forward, putting his face so close to Fontana's that he pressed Joe back against the booth.

"You know that article telling the world what a rotten cop you were? I taped it to my bathroom mirror. It's the first thing I see in the morning, and the last thing I see at night. I put it there to remind me..."

He paused to savor Joe's discomfort.

"... that lying, press-hungry detectives who don't give a shit about the people they ruin sometimes get what's coming to them."

He sat back down with a smug smile. Joe eased forward, unable to meet Dolan's mocking glare.

_I never bought that karma stuff... but I owe this guy for what I put him through... if this is how I have to pay up, so be it..._

"What's wrong, Fontana? Cat got your tongue?"

Joe shook his head.

"You deserve a free shot at me."

"Damn right I do," Dolan snapped back. "It's a good thing I'm not a violent man. You were so busy wallowing in your own self-pity, I could have stabbed you, shot you, maybe even strangled you. Next time, you won't be so lucky."

Joe licked his lips as he checked out Dolan's stance and tells.

"Is that a threat?"

Even to Joe's ear, his voice sounded weak. Dolan chuckled.

"Not from me. I'd rather see you live a long, miserable life then die in agony like my Amy and my Sarah did. I want to be the only mourner at your funeral, and I plan to piss on your grave."

Dolan slid out of the booth to stand next to Fontana. The hatred in his eyes brightened into a truly terrible joy.

"It was good seeing you like this, ex-Detective Fontana. This really made my day."

With that, Dolan picked up his take-out bag and walked away. Joe watched him stop at the entrance and hold the door for an incoming couple.

_That's Benson..._

He turned his head and hunched his shoulders so she wouldn't recognize him. When the hostess directed Benson and her companion to the rear of the place, he slumped forward.

_Like an unwashed shirt... I've got no starch in me at all..._

His mind's eye pictured again those fingers snapping in his face.

_Dolan's right... he could killed me... that's how much attention I wasn't paying... I'm damn lucky he wasn't Golja or one of Crespo's thugs... problem is—there's no way I can watch my own back... I gotta think about this—figure out how to handle it..._

The front door opened again, this time to let Judith enter the restaurant. She spotted Joe immediately and came straight to his booth.

_She looks great in blue... not at all like a cop—okay, so her walk and her quick check of the premises gives her away, but she still looks great..._

"Sorry I'm late," Judith said as she slid into the booth. "What—you've already eaten?"

She indicated the half-eaten slice and the silverware that had been shoved to one side. Joe tried a smile, but his lips refused to budge.

"You want to move somewhere else?" he asked.

"Nope. They'll clear it away. How you doing?"

Joe shrugged as though his circumstances weren't worth discussing.

_I don't want to lie to her... but I can't tell her this, neither... I don't know what she'll do..._

"Can't complain. You?"

"Busy. Chester and I got a weird one today. A woman is accusing her boyfriend of having sex with her Corgi."

The oddness of her reply somehow unfroze Joe's facial muscles. He quickly raised his eyebrows and gaped at her.

"Corgi? Isn't that a dog?"

Judith nodded. "Specifically, a Pembroke Welsh Corgi—looks a bit like a large dachshund with big ears and no tail. According to its owner, the lack of tail is what attracted her boyfriend to Pumpkin."

The waiter arrived during Judith's explanation. While he bussed their table, Judith said nothing, but her smile told Joe she was dying to say more.

_And I'm all for it... every minute she talks is one I don't have to...with any luck, I can get through this evening and never mention my problems..._

Joe's luck held. During the placing of their order, the sharing of a bottle of Vernaccia, and while they consumed a veggie pizza with anchovies, Judith carried the conversation. She told Joe about her case load, the friction at SVU, and how Cragen had again left them all hanging so he could play a round of midweek golf with Beale.

_All I had to do was look interested and make a few comments..._

The only bobble came when they were leaving. Judith glanced at the back of the restaurant then tipped her head at a couple seated in the back section.

"That looks like Olivia," she said.

Joe made a show of examining the back of Benson's head.

"Naw," he replied. "I saw her come in. She's someone else."


	2. The Seduction of Don Cragen

A/N: Promotion to sergeant, lieutenant, or captain is by examination. A candidate passes the exam then is put on the promotion list to wait for a suitable position to open. Promotions to Deputy Inspector through Chief are by decision of the Police Commissioner. This is why networking and politicking are so important to Captain Cragen at this point in the story.

As stated elsewhere, the actual policies and procedures of the NYPD can and do differ from those depicted in this story. The statistics in this chapter are based on actual figures, but have been adjusted to suit the Law & Order: SVU universe.

LEO = Law Enforcement Organization

Office of Councilman John Baker  
264 West 30th St  
Manhattan, NY  
22 July

Don Cragen entered the second-floor office and greeted Rene, Baker's receptionist. She waved him through the door that separated the tiny anteroom from the rest of the office.

_Good... those chairs were designed by a chiropractor in need of customers...._

He stopped outside Tullia Horne's office and peered through the open door. She was dressed in a salmon-colored blouse, a color Don really liked on her. Her thick brown hair was draped over her phone receiver and her gaze was fixed heavenward as she addressed her caller.

"Yes, Mrs. Sanchez... of course, Councilman Baker read your letter... no, he's on another line... I know it's difficult... I do sympathize...."

Don tuned out the soothing words, and thought about why he was there.

_Tullia offered to punch up my sexual predator talk before I give it next week... she wants to see my notes today so she can rework them before coaching me on the new version... seems like a lot of effort for an informal talk to the Manhattan Public Forum...._

He smiled as he considered Tullia's underlying reasons for her offer.

_She wants to spend time with me... she wants bolster my promotion in case her brother tries to put the kibosh on it... and, last of all, beating her head against Councilman Baker's stubborn ignorance is driving her nuts...._

He looked again at Tullia. The set of her lips as she listened to her caller warned that an offer of dinner was in order.

_A change of scenery... some place quiet where I can tell her how well last night's panel discussion went... how I held my own against a bunch of criminology professors and international experts... Andrew was right—there's nothing like real-life experience to convince people that ideas should be tested on the streets, not the college classroom... if they want to improve cross-border networking with LEOs, they need to talk to cops, not eggheads... doesn't matter what language or country—we know what really works...._

The sound of a phone receiver hitting its cradle brought Don out of his thoughts. He shook his shoulders to settle his jacket and sleeves, then entered Tullia's office.

"Is it safe to come in?" he asked.

Tullia snarled at her phone then snatched her Blackberry from its spot on her desk.

"Quick," she said, "before the damn thing rings again."

She brushed past Don and took off—a streak of salmon silk and tan linen aiming for the conference room. Don fell in behind her; when he entered the room, he shut the door behind him. A moment later, he had his arms around her and was enjoying the warmth of her deep sigh exhaled against his chest.

"That bad?" he asked

Tullia sighed again before answering.

"I swear—if Baker runs again in 2009, I'll work for whomever runs against him."

She gave Don a quick hug then stepped back so she could see his face, her left hand remaining on his waist to keep from breaking contact.

"Sure you don't want to help lead New York City into its bright future?"

Don smiled as he shook his head.

_Thanks, but I have my own bright future ahead of me...._

"I already told you," he replied. "I'm a cop, not a politician. You want someone who likes lying to people."

Tullia responded with a searching stare.

"Don't tell me cops don't lie," she warned him. "My dad and my brothers are damn good at it."

Don pulled a chair away from the conference table and held it for her.

_Imagine growing up in a whole family of Tony Balzanos... she must have taken after her mother...._

"Then you know, he said, "we lie only when we have to. Politician lie every time their vocal chords vibrate."

"Cynic."

Tullia said it with a smile, but Don accepted the label with a nod.

"It comes with the job. Last longer than a year and you're either a cynic or hopelessly stupid."

She reached up and rested her free hand on his cheek.

"And you are not stupid—not even close."

The warmth of her hand and the curve of her lips drew him down for a kiss. Tullia responded for a moment, then pulled back to look around at their surroundings.

"This definitely isn't the place."

"No, it isn't," he agreed, "so stop being irresistible."

Tullia twisted from his arms in a move so slowly he felt her reluctance. She then took a step back and made a "gimme" motion with her right hand.

"So stop being so handsome, and hand over your notes," she commanded.

Don faked a pout as he pulled his stack of three-by-five cards from his jacket pocket.

"Okay—work before fun, but later...."

He let the sentence trail off as a question. Tullia took the cards from him and shrugged.

"Let's see what you got, then I'll decide."

She slid into the chair he had held for her, her mischievous smile the only sign she had not dismissed his invitation. Don took the seat next to her and whispered the word 'tease' in her ear.

"Never," she said, her attention on the topmost card. "What I promise, I deliver, and I promised to help you with your talk. Would you pass me that pad of paper?"

Don spent the next ten minutes watching Tullia as she took notes and made whispered comments about his speech. Since he had worked with her before, Don recognized her mutterings as rhetorical, and he kept his rejoinders to himself.

"Explain 'Stockholm Syndrome' for the nice people" was one of her comments.

_It's when a victim is isolated and cannot escape, and is threatened with extreme taxation, but is shown token acts of service by the captor—no, wait... that's life in New York City...._

Then came "Uncle Ernie—I love it, but he's before the audience's time."

_Pinball Wizard old? Never...._

"Too many examples," she said next, "maybe one composite narrative explaining the dangers."

_I hadn't thought of that... take the listeners along as a predator stalks and grooms his victim... assuming I don't freak them out doing it...._

"'Flatter the child. Give her time, attention, gifts like jewelry and clothing;' sounds more like attracting a mate than stalking a child."

_To the sexual predators, it is... sometimes, they chase their victims like love-sick puppies... sometimes, they seduce them with all the skill of a Casanova...._

Finally, when Tullia finished her work, she flipped back to the first note card and tapped it with her pen.

"Don, are you sure this figure is correct?"

He leaned closer to see what had caught her attention.

"'Between eighty-seven thousand and two hundred thousand children,'' he recited, "are victimized every year.' That first number is from the Department of the Health and Human Services; it's the number of substantiated child sexual abuse cases reported in 2000. The second number is the estimate of total victimizations—reported and unreported."

_And, because numbers that large are too hard to comprehend…._

"That works out to one molested child for every two hundred and sixty kids nationwide."

"But, Don—that's..."

Tullia did some quick figuring on her note pad.

"... one thousand kids a year just for Manhattan."

Don folded his hands on the table and stifled a sigh.

_It gets worse...._

"Pair that fact with this one," he said. "Last year, my unit worked a hundred and ninety-three cases involving sex crimes against children."

Tullia did the math in her head then gaped at Don. The sickly droop of her mouth told him how hard the answer had hit her.

_Yes, as many as eight hundred unreported molested kids out there... kids we'll never know about.... _

"Wonder why I look tired all the time?" he asked. "You try sleeping with that knowledge in your head."

The note card slipped from Tullia's grasp.

"I was so into checking for things to fix, I didn't think about your subject matter. You're talking about real kids and real dangers, and I'm treating it like entertainment."

Her voice went shrill on the last word.

_I know that tone... the idea of so many damaged kids hurts... she thinks she's being heartless... she isn't—she's being a professional... nothing wrong with that...._

Don reached for Tullia's hand and patted it, hoping the contact would reassure her.

"I'm not saying it isn't grim," he said, "but sexual predators aren't the only threat out there. If I really wanted to keep kids safe, I'd ban cars and high places."

"Huh?"

"Over 90,000 children a year die in accidents. Get rid of traffic and gravity, and you'll save most of them."

Tullia made a _tut-tut_ stutter as though afraid to find his comment funny. Don smiled to show he truly was attempting humor.

_Just enough to keep things light... no need to have nightmares over this... I'll sleep even worse if I've scared you...._

"You do know you're helping me make that number smaller? The more people who stay awake while I talk at them, the more who will learn something to protect their kids."

The assurance brought a slight smile to her face.

"Okay," she said, "I don't feel so shallow now. It's just easier to think about the organization and dynamics of your speech than what it really means."

Don gave her hand a squeeze.

"Which is why you're improving it and I'm giving it. That way, we each do what we do best."

Tullia's smile widened. Don edged nearer to her.

_I think another kiss is in order...._

"Tullia? You in there?"

The not so dulcet tones of Tullia's boss entered the conference room, closely followed by the councilman himself. He plopped down on the table by Tullia with only a nod to acknowledge Cragen's presence.

"Tullia, I need you to go over the land use budget numbers tonight. I know they're not due until next month, but I promised Christine she could get a peek at them in the morning."

"John...."

Tullia glared at him as she waved a hand at the cards in front of her and the police captain seated next to her.

"I'm already working with Captain Cragen on his speech for the Manhattan Public Forum. You don't want to piss off Helen, now—do you?"

Baker greeted her mention of the chair of the city's Committee on Women's Issues with a loud grunt.

"I'm hip-deep in women's issues right now; Laura's celebrating Shark Week. Have the figures on my desk first thing for Christine's girl to pick up. If you need me, I'll be home hiding in my shark cage."

Baker nodded once more to Cragen before leaving. Tullia rested her head on Don's shoulder.

"God," she groaned, "what a jerk. I'm sorry, Don but I'm going to need most of this evening to finish that report in time."

Before he could say anything comforting, she straightened in her chair and picked up his note cards.

"Let's try this: you take my notes and run through your stuff in this order—I rearranged some of them for better flow. Make the changes I marked and we'll go through this again tomorrow night."

Don accepted the stack of cards and her notes.

"Shall we make it some place where Baker can't find you?"

Tullia's grin let him know they had a date.

Residence of Donald Cragen  
Bensonhurst, NY  
22 July

Don turned east onto Eighty-First Street and backed into the first driveway. He left his Buick out...

_The Jaguar is in the garage... got to keep her safe and dry...._

... and picked up his mail before heading inside. After changing out of his mid blue plain weave suit, one of the five he had bought at Beale's urging, he zapped a small frozen lasagna and made a tossed salad made from pre-packaged greens and a tomato from his neighbor's vines.

_Definitely a poor substitute for Tullia's cooking...._

When the dishes were in the dishwasher, Don then spread his note cards, a fresh stack of blanks, some scratch paper, and Tullia's sheet of changes on the coffee table in his living room. To the accompaniment of Aerosmith, thanks to the Arena Rock channel on cable, he began to rework his speech.

The first thing he did was mark through Tullia's Uncle Ernie note.

_I don't care what Tullia says—this stays in...._

Next, he marked through everything that Tullia had deemed redundant.

_She wants me to concentrate on what the parents need to know, not what is important to SVU... parents want to keep predators away from their kids while I need to draw them in so we can catch them... although her comment 'don't think of kids as bait' is kind of harsh...._

He then skimmed through what was left of his speech.

_Not much, but I see her point... if I lead the parents through a stalking—show them what a predator wants and how he gets it, they'll remember it better... maybe I should use two scenarios—one about a stranger who targets a child, the other predator after a family member... one victim a girl and the other a boy to keep everybody's attention...._

Don reached for the scrap paper while he considered his options.

_No school personnel or religious workers as perps... why alienate any teachers or catechism instructors in my audience? Maybe something loosely based on Munch and Otten's serial killer... as for the second scenario, I'm sticking with Uncle Ernie—heck, I'll even call him that... a trusted family member... can't get more normal than that...._

He kept his original introduction with the stats that had upset Tullia then he drew up a new outline that combined facts and preventative info with the two stories.

_Neither story will end well... this isn't a TV show where the bad guy gets caught, and everyone is smiling before the final commercial... sex abuse cases more often end with a traumatized child, a shattered family, years of therapy for everyone—not to mention the trial with all its added emotional stress...._

Two hours later, he had the finished result: a set of fresh note cards telling the stories of Taylor and Jacob, one enticed from her neighborhood playground by a man who claimed his puppy was missing, the other taken under his uncle's wing after his mom gets sole custody.

Don then read through the cards to see if he had forgotten anything.

_The Stranger Snatch—Taylor falls for the lost puppy story and goes with her predator... the same enticement was used in the Sophie Douglas case we closed a few years back... Taylor's body is found weeks later in a vacant lot across town... this is where I explain what drives a sexual predator—how they believe the only difference between children and adults is the amount of sexual experience each has... they think children 'want it' as much as they do... these people see themselves as normal and the rest of us as obstacles to their needs...._

_Jacob gets the full seduction—Tullia is right... to predators like 'Uncle Ernie,' pursuing a child is exactly like wooing a mate... Uncle Ernie feels giddy whenever he is near his nephew... he is thrilled when Jacob enjoys his attention and plays with his gifts... he gets aroused when he and Jacob finally are alone together... plus, there is the excitement of fooling his sister and the hold he has over Jacob—in this case, Uncle Ernie keeps his nephew in-line with death threats...._

Don stretched to loosen the stiffness in his back...

_Should have worked at the kitchen table instead of the sofa..._

... then he sat back to consider his efforts.

_This should do it... if nothing else, it will give Tullia something to mutter about... funny how she thinks out loud like that... if I tried that, Chloe would call the departmental shrinks... a psych evaluation is the last thing I need while I'm wooing the brass...._

He grimaced at the thought.

_Especially after showing how well I handle myself under stress and in public... impressing the right people, as Andrew keeps telling me, is one-half the promotion battle…._

Don reminded himself that impressing people wasn't enough; he also had to give One Police Plaza what it needed.

_That's the other half of the battle…to produce major busts that get favorable media attention... like the Eratais case—nothing beats large numbers of perverts in cuffs... and the Dykeman rapist collar and the Ehsan case—both got SVU and me a lot of air time... then there was Howie and Sue's closing of the Sydham assault—celebrity victims always get ink...._

He grinned at the memory of that news conference, where he had deftly maneuvered himself around Detective Brewster to stand next to the victim's famous big sister.

_I was close enough to Nicole Sydham to smell her perfume... I think it goes for $100 a sniff at Saks' cosmetic counter... I also got a long stare at her cleavage... next time anyone wonders if they're real, I'll be ready with an expert opinion.... all those closes followed by Munch and Otten's blockbuster... the arrest of that serial killer got us nation-wide attention... I've proved my worth... in fact, I look damn good... Andrew was right—it's __all a matter of attitude, bearing, presentation... I'm acting like I deserve the position and, the way things are going, I'll have those oak leaves when the list comes out in August...._

He had said as much to Andrew the previous morning in the parking lot of the Tuckahoe Country Club. Beale's response had been to hold up a pudgy finger in warning.

"No one deserves it more than you, Don," Andrew had said, "but keep in mind—every credit has a debit."

Don remembered how odd the phrase had sounded.

_My puzzlement must have shown, because Andrew immediately corrected himself…._

"It's just something my accountant keeps telling me," Andrew had told him. "Call it a reminder that your office door still reads 'Captain'."

_And he's right…everything is going smoothly, but I'm not there yet… Balzano could still black-ball me... my squad could screw up and make me look bad... I could find Otten's photo on the front page under the headline 'Disgraced Kid Killer and SVU Cop Caught in Mob Roll-up'... given what Andrew said about Fontana, it wouldn't surprised me... but it's still an odd thing for him to say…._

Don gathered up his note cards and papers and carried them into the kitchen. The cards he put by the coffee pot so he would remember to take them with him in the morning. He then began his nightly routine of checking the house before heading to bed. As he checked the back door's locks, bits of his speech ran through his head.

"_Sex predators often lead a double life. Publicly, they are kind and generous—willing to help and very likable. They are exactly the sort of person you'd want as a friend—someone you can trust and admire"… and I'll never get to sleep if I can't put this aside and clear my head…._

He rattled the knob on the front door before checking its deadbolt and chain. He then glanced through the front window to see that the front yard lights were on and that no unrecognized cars were parked at on the street.

"_Grooming is the process of obtaining a child's friendship and trust. The purpose is to accustom the child to obey the predator. If necessary, this includes obtaining his families' friendship and trust. Once Jacob decides to unconditionally trust his Uncle Ernie, he becomes vulnerable"… this is major…we humans need companionship, and we'll do some very stupid things if it means someone will be our 'friend'…._

He headed upstairs. From his bedroom window, he checked the status of the outside lights. Both the garage light and the one shining on the pool were lit.

"_Uncle Ernie praises Jacob's efforts at school and soccer. He spends lots of quality time with his nephew—they play mini-golf, see movies, go for ice cream. Uncle Ernie gives Jacob the RC race car he wants and the designer sneakers Jacob's mom can't afford. He also slips him spending money—each gift with the warning 'Don't tell your mom. This is our little secret'."_

Don gazed out at his neighborhood, one last check to see all was well in his world.

_That's a predator's idea of "love"—trust bought by gifts and attention... sounds almost like my promotion run... I'm giving One P.P. lots of good closes and good press… I'm winning their trust—seducing them into promoting me…._

Don glanced down at the garage, where his XKE was parked.

_I've picked up some goodies of my own along the way… the Jag, my new suits… I'm glad Andrew convinced me to go to his tailor… I'd never have spent that much on my own…._

He headed for the bathroom and his toothbrush.

_It's like the dam burst, the way I've been spending… still can't believe I bid ninety-one thousand for Greg Lau's baby… come to think of it, Andrew helped me with that, too—he scoped out the competition for me then kept me from chickening out after Street-T sent the bidding so high… Andrew said he 'admired my audacity'…._

Don stared at the paunchy bald man in his mirror.

_I don't usually get much admiration, but it's not just from Andrew—last night's panel members and attendees enjoyed my input… uniforms stop me in the hall and thank me for breaking the pay contract impasse... same with the brass... even the Commissioner thinks highly of me... when Andrew first told me I had impressed Richardson, I blew it off, but he was right… doors now open for me... my phone calls get returned... my requests are filled ASAP... I've got more golf invites than I can fit in…I'd spent so many years in the wilderness I forgot how great civilization is…._

He grinned at the joy of it all.

_I owe most of this to Andrew… he literally fished our chestnuts out of the fire during Operation Chestnut—couldn't have nailed Diane Wilkerson or Tommy Sullivan without him... Andrew also got the promotion ball rolling… he hooked me up with the right people in the right places… he urged me on when I had doubts... Andrew is exactly the sort of person I want as a friend…._

Something rumbled in his abdomen. Don placed his hand on his stomach and winced.

_I really should eat better… microwave lasagna—might as well eat slag metal…._

Cragen did not sleep well that night. The proximate cause was the discomfort in his gut...

_... although that lovesick stray cat outside my window didn't help matters any… or that dream about me searching the Bronx for my oak leaves... checking warehouse after warehouse after warehouse for collar insignia... feeling like someone was breathing down my neck the whole time…watching every move I made…._

Don rotated his neck and winced at the sounds of gravel from between his vertebrae.

_Definitely not a restful night's sleep...._

He first went to the kitchen to make coffee then showered and dressed.

_The mid gray birdseye with blue... even the name sounds spiffy... a blue shirt... gray tie with a thin dark blue line... black leather suspenders... shoes professionally polished—one of Andrew's hints... and I'm ready to face the world... except my stomach hurts and it feels like the world is sitting on my head...._

He considered breakfast, but nothing in his cupboard felt right to his stomach. Its discomfort drove him to open the freezer and dump the remaining frozen lasagna into the kitchen trash.

_No reason to eat it if the first one made me sick...._

The drive into work was uneventful, and the squadroom was quiet. Benson briefed him on the most recent cases.

_Tutuola and Sofarelli—a rape last night outside a nightclub in Soho... Stabler and Benson—phone complaint from a woman about her son's perversions—sounds more like hand-holding than a real case... Munch and Loudoun are at the scene of a fire... possible arson with intent to commit murder... the fire chief thinks it should be ours... Munch will know if he's sluffing it off on us or not.... Otten and Lake are working a report of animal porn in the Meatpacking District—strange bit of irony there…._

When Benson had finished, Don got some coffee. He then closed himself in his office so he could read through his messages in peace.

_Call from Elena de Palma about next week's Manhattan Public Forum—she needs the run time of my speech... message from Casey—she's working up her cases against the Erastais pervs and, because I made some of the arrests, I may get called as a witness… call from Steve Murillo about golf on Saturday... reminder about CompStat next week—can't wait for this one... nineteen cold murder cases closed on top of our usual great performance... yes, I'm going to shine...._

His first sip of squad coffee tasted worse than usual. Don put the mug down so he could rummage through his desk drawer for some antacid.

_Muscle aches, sour stomach... can't be the 'flu—it's summer time... maybe I'm worried about this speech... don't know why... Tullia will work the kinks out for me... speaking of which…._

Don rolled up his shirt sleeves then he removed the stack of note cards from his shirt pocket.

_Let's see if I remember any of this from last night…._

He had reached the part where he explained to the audience how a child's need to belong made it easy for a predator to manipulate him when his cell phone rang. Don answered it with a curt "Cragen."

"_Of course it is, Don. Who else would answer your phone?"_

A wave of nausea hit Don before he could answer. He swallowed hard against the bile in his throat, and leaned forward to ease the sudden cramping.

_I just went cold… skin clammy… heart pounding—damn it, what's wrong with me?_

"_Don? Are you there?"_

The sound of his friend's concern broke into his own worry.

"Yeah, I'm here," he told Beale, "but I don't feel so good."

"_Maybe you're ODing on all the praise you're getting."_

Don faked a laugh. "Right, Andrew. Success makes my stomach hurt."

"_Seriously, are you okay?"_

"I don't think dinner last night agreed with me. I should be fine later."

"_Think you'll be okay by lunch today? I'm meeting Francisco Martinez; this might be a good time for you to clear the air with him."_

Don's stomach cramped harder.

_The Bronx D.A…. I snaked Judith and Tucker out of his slimy hands last time I saw him… I don't feel up to seeing either him or Andrew right now…._

"Let me take a rain check. Right now, I'm more likely to throw up on Martinez than anything."

Beale's chuckle served as acceptance of Don's refusal.

"_You take it easy, my friend. Too many things are coming to a head for you to be out of commission. I'll check on you later this evening and tell you how it went with Martinez."_

Andrew said his good-byes and hung up. Don set his cell down and used his handkerchief to dry his hands.

_Nausea, cold sweat, muscle cramps… that felt more like a panic attack than food poisoning… why would a call from Andrew trigger—_

His gaze fell on the speech before him, the one explaining how predators stalk and manipulate unwary victims. The chill sweat on his skin turned to ice.

_No… that's wrong…. Andrew's my boss… my friend… this can't describe him… no…._

The ache in his gut told him otherwise. Don checked the blinds on his windows and doors. Once certain of his privacy, he sank back in his chair and began to shake_._

_It's the 'flu… it has to be… I'd know if Andrew was stalking me… after all my years here, I know the signs… I'm not some naïve kid—an easy mark for a predator… I'm not…._

He glanced around his office, searching the many souvenirs of his long career for proof. His gaze passed over the papers on his desk to rest on his left wrist. An oblong discoloration, the scar from the pin used to hold the broken bone while it healed, took him back to the warehouse on Bryant Avenue.

_Cornered… scared… certain Lau would kill me… later, trapped again in my own office by my old friend Tommy Sullivan… certain he'd spot the wire and ruin Stabler and me… furious at how he wrecked everything in his way to ditch deMichelis… then I'm waiting for Richardson, Conrad and Balzano to shit-can me and my people… feeling the same aches, the same sweats, the same knots in my gut…._

Don held his right hand out, palm down, and watched it tremble.

_I know what pressure and fear does to a person… it's my job to watch my people for signs of it… nightmares, irritability, hypersensitivity, avoidance of people and places involved with the trauma… I'm trained to spot the signs and make sure my people get the help they need… to protect them when they can't see clearly enough to protect themselves…._

He dropped his hand back to his lap, letting it cover the scar on his other wrist as though trying to hide it and the memories it triggered.

_That operation turned me inside-out... all that treachery and double-dealing… even my own people lost faith in me… between Tommy and them, I felt abandoned… unappreciated… stuck here to rot my life away…._

Don turned his attention to his office door. The closed Venetian blinds hid the squadroom and the detectives in it.

_So I turned my anger on my detectives… I drove them away then I withdrew to my office, my cave… coming out only to dump on the people I'm supposed to lead… I ignored Judith's own PSTD… the breakdown between John and Fin… the rivalry between John and Judith… everyone's grief over Fred and Tammy… I favored Couch over Elliot solely for revenge—I even dragged Liv into it… I dumped on all of them… each action carefully disguised as appropriate management of my command so I'd look good no matter what…._

He rested his forearms on his desk and leaned forward, not to ease the ache in his gut, but because shame sapped the strength from his body.

_I'm supposed to know myself... that's what the Jesuits kept drumming into us at school... but I missed every warning sign... I let myself crack… and, by doing so, I did major damage to my people…._

He sat hunched over his desk until his hands fell asleep, heedless of their numbing, aware only of how badly he had failed his people and his command.

_I let those oak leaves seduce me… I saw only promotion and not what chasing it did to me and my people…. I was traumatized…shell-shocked… and I reacted with single-minded selfishness….I can't deny it—it's all true…._

Don raised his head enough to see the stack of note cards centered on his blotter.

_And, to top it all off, I think Beale is stalking me… paranoia can be part of the PTSD package… am I really being seducing by a predator or am I merely going nuts?_

He sank back in his chair and flexed his fingers, hating the tingles that shot through them as blood flow resumed.

_How can I tell? I couldn't see what I was doing to my people… that's why we do psych evaluations after traumatic events—so someone outside the problem can diagnose it… no one suggested I see a shrink after everything went down… I guess they figured I could handle it—either that or Richardson gave the job to Balzano and he conveniently 'forgot'… yeah, I can see him doing that… certainly wouldn't put it past him… he'd do anything to wreck my life...._

The obvious paranoia in that last thought brought Don up short.

_It wasn't his responsibility—Chief Conrad should have said some thing, and I know he isn't out to get me… he isn't, but what about Beale? Is the ache in my gut from stress or lasagna or from my instincts finally kicking in? It's not like I've know Beale for a long time... we met last year when he took over as SVU Bureau Chief from Donnelly... a few staff meetings... some harsh memos about our methods... I figured him for a micromanaging jerk, but he rode to our rescue when we really needed it... "his people, his problem"... I owed him big-time for running interference for Wilkerson... it let me handle Sullivan—to fight the war on one front instead of two...._

All the many things Beale had done for him—everything from his first observation about Don having the Commissioner's ear to his arranging Don's appearance at the Vance Center—ran through Don's memory.

_Yes, I owe him... but I'm also hearing the words of my speech and wondering if they also fit Beale... how do I sort this out? I can't take this to George or one of the department's shrinks… I can't admit Andrew makes my gut ache—that, out of the blue, I distrust him that much... not unless I have a damn good reason for it... not unless I can sort out what is real and what is warped by trauma and stress...._

His gaze fell on the phone messages Chloe had left on his desk.

_Casey wants to meet with me… Andrew's her boss… if anyone knows the dirt on him, she will...._

Don pulled his desk phone to him and dialed her office number. It rang twice before she answered.

"_Sex Crimes, Novak."_

"Casey, it's Don Cragen. You said you wanted to discuss the Erastais cases. How about noon today? Maybe lunch?"

_Andrew will be with Martinez… I can slip in and out without running into him…._

His suggestion was met with an atonal hum as she considered it.

"_I'm due in chambers at 1:30. Mind if we eat in my office? I'll call out for Chinese."_

Just in time, Don remembered he was supposed to be ill.

"Make mine egg drop soup. My stomach's a little dicey today."

"_You got it. See you at twelve."_

Don replaced the phone receiver and sank back in his chair, the knot in his stomach reminding him how screwed up everything was.

_God, I hope I'm wrong about Beale... but I got to check it out... if I'm wrong, I'm taking immediate sick leave and planting myself on George's couch... screw the promotion... right now, with everything I've done and everything I'm thinking... I don't deserve it...._


	3. Suspicious Minds: part one

Club Beso del Sol  
294 Spring Street  
23 July (Friday)

The 911 call came in at 4:17 a.m. Fin's cell had beeped at 4:29 a.m.

_I hate on-call… I hate getting shorted on sleep… but I got to disturb Sofarelli's beauty rest… don't have to suffer alone…._

The early morning sun shone on the gaudy elegance of the nightclub's facade. Its design was inspired, according to the New York Ledger's club review, by a trip the owner took to the Cayman Islands to visit his tax shelter. There was no sign or nameplate; people not in the know were too uncool to be welcome. The intent of the mystery and the décor was to convince hoards of club-goers to pay for the exotic pleasures inside.

_Shoulder-to-shoulder crowds of nobodies, obscenely priced liquor, restrooms filled with couples doing both blow and blow jobs, music amplified beyond human endurance... hell, I like rap, but I don't need my ears bleeding to enjoy it...._

Since the crime scene was in the alley behind the club, all the activity was there. Fin paused in the sunlit quiet of the sidewalk to expand his notes from the bouncer interviews.

_The doorman said they came in around quarter to midnight... three men, two women—'Bridge and Tunnel' he called them, which means they aren't from Manhattan... Long Island was his guess... around 2 a.m., one of the women started dancing with a Dominican with gang tats… one of the men got pissed and threw a punch at him... happens every night, according to the manager... by the time the bouncers got to them, at least six men were going at it... the bouncers grabbed the three B&Ts and two Dominicans and tossed all of them, making sure to use different doors so the fight didn't continue on the sidewalk... the women stayed inside... guess they was having too much fun to care what happened to their men...._

According the bouncer working the front door through which the B&Ts were tossed, the three men hung around yelling threats for a few minutes, then they headed east on Spring, toward the Metro at Sixth Avenue.

_The two Dominicans were ejected out the side door… Corso, the bouncer who tossed them, says both headed north on Hudson… Metro's at Houston and Varick… maybe they took the One back to Washington Heights… Corso also said they was regulars, but no one I asked can put a name on either of them…._

Fin watched the comings and goings at the alley: CSU packing up its gear, employees leaving after giving their statements. A patrol car pulled up by the crime scene tape blocking the alley. Its passenger door opened to let out Couch Sofarelli.

_Here comes Cragen's golden boy… he ain't so hot… on Tuesday, he almost puked on the body of a working girl the Three-three thought was a rape-murder… damn rookie thing to do… this victim was on the bus when we got here, so my crime scene stayed puke-free…._

The sergeant in charge of the CSU team pointed Couch in Fin's direction.

_I sent him with the victim just in case she came to and gave us a statement… hope he got something from her… since he didn't bother to bring me any coffee…._

Fin scowled as he realized the omission was probably deliberate.

_He may be a damn puppy, but he's not stupid… he knows I don't like working with him… gotten so there's no one in SVU I want to work with… damn place is going down the tubes—nothing but a turd waiting for the final flush…._

"You get anything?" Fin called out to Couch.

_Besides the coffee I don't see you carrying…._

Couch answered with a shake of his head.

"They took her straight to the OR," he replied. "Fractured skull from being slammed against the wall."

"The wall, and the Dumpster, and the pavement," Fin told him. "Whoever did this, it was personal. You get the rape kit?"

"Not yet."

Fin snarled at his answer.

_Got nothing except a badly injured female… DNA might be our only lead…._

"Why the hell not?"

Couch squared his shoulders and met Fin's glare with one of his own.

"The OR nurse said the surgery could take hours," he replied. "It's not just the skull fracture; there's dural tearing and swelling as well as other fractures and internal injuries. As soon as she's out of surgery, they will call us and we can witness the kit."

He nodded once as though to say "So, there!" before asking Fin, "Did you find her ID?"

Fin scowled at the question.

"Canvass didn't find her purse. No one involved has a name yet. According to the bartenders, no one remembers the Dominicans ordering anything and the B&Ts paid cash."

_Probably had maxed out their credit cards on threads and eyebrow plucking…._

Fin hooked a thumb at the entrance.

"The manager gave us the security tapes of the fight. CSU is getting photos of the participants so we can send them out to the precincts."

Sofarelli followed Fin's gaze to where CSU was shutting the doors of its van.

"Photos of persons unknown," he muttered. "Not much to work with, is it?"

"Not everything comes on a silver platter like that promotion of yours."

Sofarelli turned back to face Fin. The early morning sun cast his face in shadow, but the way his weight rested on the balls of his feet and the free swing of his arms warned Fin that his taunt had hit home

_All his martial arts etiquette crap will keep him from coming at me… the Rangers didn't teach me to respect my opponent… quick and dirty's the way I roll…._

They eyed one another for a moment, then Sofarelli spoke.

"Problem?"

Fin sneered as he shook his head.

"I got no problem."

_Nothing a transfer won't fix…._

Former location of Felice Wholesale Meat  
437 W. 13th Street  
23 July

Felice Wholesale Meats, once a thriving business that turned pork carcasses into loin roasts, chops, and sausage, was no more. Its two-story yellow brick building was now vacant, its roll-down doors closed and locked. Posters and graffiti covered its walls and three overflowing Dumpsters blocked access to the small loading dock. The High Line, an abandoned freight rail line slated for conversion to a greenway, ran along the roof line at the north side of the building. Thanks to its trestle, the wide corrugated metal canopy shading the sidewalk, and the high-rise apartment building being built across the street, little light reached the street entrance.

_The perfect setting for film noir animal porn…._

Otten and Lake were parked in that gloom, windows open since the morning had not yet turned hot. Both had thermal mugs of coffee, store-bought, not squadroom, which they drank as they waited for the leasing agent to arrive with keys.

"You watch," Chester told Judith. "He'll be a half-hour late."

Judith sipped her coffee before nodding. "Of course. We're not business owners looking for a building. There's no profit in helping us out."

A RMP pulled up across the street. Judith waved at the officers inside it, letting them know they were at the right place.

She and Chester had spent the past two days comparing street views from Google Maps to a still taken from the porno in their efforts to track down the location where the series of bestiality films had been made.

_One scene was set in an office… you could see the building across the street through the window—assuming you were looking at the background and not at the young girl and the two Belgian Malinois performing in the foreground… _

Once they had the building matched, the Department of Buildings' BIS database gave them the owner's name, which led them to the leasing agent.

_According to the building records, the place has been vacant for three years… the current owner applied for permits to build a new sixteen-story building last year, but the DOB turned down his plans… City Hall being very expensive to fight, he put the building up for lease with no takers so far…._

A dark blue van pulled up behind them and cut its engine.

_There's CSU… now, all we need is the leasing agent…._

Chester stuck his head through the driver's side window.

"We're waiting on keys," he called to the van behind them.

The CSU tech behind the wheel raised his can of soda in reply. When Chester turned his attention to the construction across the street, Judith spoke up.

"You bird watching?"

"I think my brother Michael is working at this site," he told her. "When we're done here, want to go up and meet him?"

Judith craned her neck to see through the windshield.

_Those guys are fifteen stories up there… heck, no…._

She shook her head vehemently.

"If I wanted to walk high steel, I'd have joined the Iron Workers."

A dry chuckle answered her refusal.

"I'm with you on that," Chester said. "My tribal name translates as 'Fumble-footed Ground Hugger.'"

He drew his head back into the car while Judith puzzled over his answer.

_Really? … no, you're making that up… _

"You're joking, right?"

"I am. My grandparents spoke _Kanien'keha_, but they didn't pass it on to my brother and me, and my foster parents spoke only English."

He took a sip of coffee then said, "You given any thought to my tunnel idea?"

Since Monday, when Cragen had paired them, a running gag had been established: the two of them would break out of Manhattan SVU and escape back to Brooklyn. Lake used it as a pressure valve for his resentment at being summarily transferred; Judith went along because it served as common ground between them.

_I'm not happy about things here, but I can't change or leave it… if devising elaborate escapes helps Chester adjust, I'm all for it…._

His latest scheme featured them stealing one of the many boring machines Chester swore had been abandoned in the tunnels under Manhattan and using it to dig an escape route under the East River.

_Makes somewhat more sense than his previous plan…considering neither one of us can fly a helicopter…._

"Chester, I don't know about tunnels. You may be a ground hugger, but I'm not that fond of narrow dark places. How about we rethink the ferry boat diversion?"

He chuckled then said, "You prefer sneaking tons of dry ice into the pilot house so the captain gets confused in the fake fog and heads for Brooklyn?"

"I do," she told him. "Dry ice is simple; tunneling machines aren't."

Chester crumpled his coffee cup and tossed it into the back seat.

"It can't be a great plan without complicated machinery—oh, there's our guy."

A black Lexus RX350 drove past them and parked by the Dumpsters. Its driver was male, mid-fifties, five-ten, two-forty, with a comb-over, an expensive suit, and an annoying wheeze to his breathing that Judith could hear from ten feet away.

_He needs to see a doctor… either he's a heart attack waiting to happen or there's more loose asbestos in his buildings than I want to think about…._

She and Chester exited their Taurus. The CSU team and the uniformed back-up followed suit.

"You the detectives?" the man asked.

"We are," Chester answered. "You David Banks?"

When the man nodded, Judith drew the search warrant from her jacket and handed it to him. He read the first page then sighed as though its only purpose was to ruin his life.

"Guess I have to let you in," he said as he fished a ring of keys from his pants pocket. "When you called, you said this was about trespassing. Was there any damage to the property?"

Judith glanced at Chester to make sure he was watching Banks' face.

_We want his reaction to the reason… impossible to read it over the phone…._

"Actually, Mr. Banks," Lake told him, "it's about illegal sex with animals—dogs, goats, sheep, moo calves."

Banks' nose crinkled

"Some one is pulling your chain, Detective," he said, a wheezy laugh punctuating his reply. "I inspect this building regularly, and I'd know if someone was bringing animals inside."

Judith gestured at the entrance.

"How about letting us in to see for ourselves?"

A few minutes later, she and Lake were standing in the office featured in the porno.

_I'd say that pile of dog poop in the corner proves Banks' inspections aren't too thorough…._

She compared the room to the still taken from the film

_Same half-finished building outside the window… same configuration of windows and blinds… same furniture—I'll have CSU dust this place, and check that stain on the desk chair…._

The leasing agent was in the hall outside the office trying to raise the building's owner on his cell phone. The series of repeated "Yes, I'll hold" and "No, I'm holding for Peter Ivanov" showed his lack of success.

Lake brushed past him to join Judith in the office.

"CSU is checking the main slaughter room," he announced. "There's signs of recent activity there."

Judith pointed to the poop. "And here. Looks like all our eye strain wasn't in vain.

He moved next to her and lowered his voice.

"Banks seem a little 'off' to you?"

Judith eased around so her back was toward the leasing agent.

"Yes. I figured he'd be disgusted, grossed out—at least a snort of disbelief at your 'moo calves', but his reaction was flatter than that. Another thing…."

She tipped her head toward Banks.

"I'm not sure he really called anyone. When he hit the phone keys, they were silent."

Chester stared out the window as he considered that possibility.

"Can't hurt to check him out. If he moonlights as a movie producer, we'll find a money trail."

From the office door came the sound of a phone snapping shut.

"I can't reach Mr. Ivanov," Banks told them as he walked over to where they were standing. "I did leave voicemail. Do you think he's part of this atrocity?"

Judith gave him her best "butter won't melt in my mouth" smile. Next to her, Lake's expression was pure fake sincerity.

"We won't know until we finish our investigation," he told Banks. "Detective Otten and I have to check out everyone associated with this building: you, your company, Mr. Ivanov, his company, everyone who might have legitimately left fingerprints or DNA—speaking of which…."

He paused to heighten the effect.

"Since you said you inspected the building, we need yours to keep from confusing them with the real criminals. If you'll come by the Sixteenth Precinct this afternoon, you can take care of that for us."

Banks gaped at him and his lips twitched twice as a sheen of sweat dampened his forehead

"Sure—sure, I can do that. This afternoon? No problem."

Judith stifled an urge to look at Lake.

_Some thing is frightening Banks… getting caught making porn… getting caught renting the property and pocketing the rent… maybe something else entirely… whatever it is, it now puts him in the center of our radar…._

Residence of Cynthia Williamson  
502 W. 141st Street, Apt. 5B  
23 July

_Great… another case with Donna Loudoun, God's gift to SVU… and, judging from the way she barely missed that bike messenger, the solution to New York City's pedestrian problem…._

John Munch was in the passenger seat. His right hand had a discreet but strong grip on the armrest, and his right foot was pressed so hard against the floor mat, he could feel the worn spots through his shoe sole.

_Considering the case awaiting us, I wouldn't mind an accident… just try not to kill me in the process… at least I don't have to worry about broken glass… the windows are rolled down because Loudoun picked a car without a working AC… _

The wind through the open windows tousled Loudoun's brown hair and set John's tie to flapping. He smoothed it with his free hand.

_Loudoun doesn't wear ties… she gets by with slacks and shirts like Olivia… Now, Kay Howard wore ties, but she used them to balance her collection of ear rings and her long red hair… I spent a lot of hours trying not to think about the way her hair cur__led about her face…._

He replaced that mental image with one of Connie's face framed by her much shorter salt-and-cinnamon hair.

_I've always like red hair…._

The odor of wet ash and burnt debris hit around Broadway and W 140th. Loudoun cut over to Amsterdam and found a parking space just south of W 141th. As soon as she killed the engine, John turned in his seat to face her. His motion prompted Loudoun to pause with her hand on the ignition.

"Can it, Munch," she told him. "I'm tired hearing how this is done, and how that is done. SVU isn't some alternate universe where nothing I know counts."

John shrugged off her attitude.

"Fine," he said as he unfastened his seat belt. "When you fall through the floor to your death, the last sound you'll hear is me laughing my ass off."

Donna froze, her hand still holding the keys.

"What the hell you mean by that?"

John twisted again to face her.

"You ever done an arson investigation?"

She shook her head.

"Ever been in a building after a fire?"

She shook her head again.

John pointed his index finger at her face.

"Then you better pay attention to the fire investigators. If one of them says, 'Don't step there,' then don't step there—even if it means you can't get the view you need of the evidence. These guys know what's safe and what isn't. We may feud with them, but, when it comes to burned buildings, they're right and we aren't."

Loudoun aimed her gaze at the sun visor.

"Okay—watch where I step and listen to the experts. Anything else?"

John noted the disdain underlying her words.

_Stop treating me like I went senile years ago…._

"Yes," he told her, "there is. I know you're not squeamish—you did great Monday at the morgue—but dying in a fire is the stuff of nightmares. It makes you pray the killer was kind enough to blow the victim's brains out before lighting the match."

He shuddered then cursed himself for the weakness.

_She'll take it as histrionics, but it isn't… I haven't seen a burn victim since Baltimore and I was hoping to retire without another one…._

"Okay—brace myself for bad dreams. Got it."

She yanked the ignition key and reached for the door handle.

_I ought to let you learn for yourself … but I can't—not this time…._

John cleared his throat to regain her attention.

"Donna," he said, hoping the use of her first name would underscore the import of his words, "there's a reason firefighters make sick jokes about 'crispy critters.' It's to keep from thinking about what victims endure in a fire, their skin blistering from the heat, their lungs seared by super-heated air and chemicals like hydrogen cyanide and hydrogen chloride, disoriented by smoke and flame, trapped without hope while they burn alive."

He remembered his last fire case, a crack house ignited by a carelessly placed candle. Three addicts had died in that blaze and not even a nose filled with VapoRub had masked the stench of their charred flesh.

"No matter how you react to the circumstances of the crime or the victim's mortal remains," he told her, "even if you'd rather retch or run away, the case always deserves your best."

Loudoun stared at him for a moment then her expression softened.

"This will be that bad?" she asked.

He peered at her over his lenses.

"If not this one, the next one. You might take this in stride then fold at the sight of a mutilated transsexual. We all have an point where we lose it. On this unit, it's a given you'll find exactly what that point is."

_I once told Olivia about points and abysses… we don't dare lose our balance on our points, but we can't keep our balance by ourselves… Loudoun has to stop thinking she can handle it and start accepting our help…._

Donna's gaze slid from his face to the floorboards as she considered his words.

"Okay," she finally said, "I will maintain my professionalism at all costs. Good enough?"

Her words held the same disdain as before, but a hint of wariness in the way she looked back at him told Munch he had gotten through.

_Good… the sooner you break out of that 'know-it-all' shell, the better for all of us…._

After Loudoun locked the car, she paused. Without meeting his gaze, she said, "Thank you for not saying I can't 'pick the vic.' Damn, but I hate that phrase."

_So do I, but it does get the message across…._

"Your secret is safe with me," he told Loudoun.

The two detectives met up with the arson investigation team outside the six-story red-brick building. Gary Whelan, a Detective-Investigator from the Arson/Explosion Squad was close to Munch's age, although he tried to hide that fact behind a thick thatch of store-bought hair and a liberal application of Grecian Formula to his mustache and eyebrows. Brian Trout, a fire marshall with the FDNY's Bureau of Fire Investigation, was half his age. Both wore boots, bunker coats, and the iconic fire hats, the same protective gear that they offered to Munch and Loudoun.

"Don't think about protesting," Munch told Loudoun. "Soggy debris down the back of your neck is the least of the fun awaiting us. Also, you'll want this."

He handed Loudoun a small jar of mentholated ointment. The arson investigators nodded their approval when she smeared a dab below her nose.

The building's elevator had not been affected by the fire, so the four of them took it to the fifth floor. Whelan told them about the applicable warrants as they rode up.

"It's a criminal warrant based on observations of the fire itself and the position and condition of the body. We also got permission from the building's owner to search outside the apartment in question."

"How much of the building was…uh, involved?" Loudoun asked.

Munch hid a smile at her question.

_Got the jargon right—good for you…._

"The victim's apartment on the fifth floor and the one above it," Trout told her, "with some minor damage to the unit that shared its interior wall with the victim's place. There's major water damage to the apartments on the floors below and smoke damage to everything on the fifth and sixth floors at this end of the building. All in all, seventeen families are displaced."

By the time they reached the apartment, John was soaked in sweat from the heavy gear and Loudoun's face was flushed. She grabbed the collar and pulled away from her neck to let in some cooler air.

"This is bad enough without a fire," she commented.

Whelan and Trout exchanged knowing glances.

"I can get you an air pack and a length of hose," Trout offered. "After five minutes of carrying them around, that gear will feel as light as a bikini."

"No, thanks," she snapped.

Once in the apartment, it was obvious what made it a crime scene. John catalogued the facts with professional detachment.

_The victim was found prone on an open sleeper-sofa, which was fully consumed in the blaze… arms are positioned above the head and appear to have been fastened to the frame of the sleeper-sofa by leather strap wrapped around both wrists… the presence of a metal buckle by the right hand indicates that a belt may have been used to restrain the victim's arms… the lower extremities are also bound to the frame, but these are in a 'spread-eagle' position… again, the restraints appear to be leather belts… I hope Connie doesn't want steak for dinner tonight… _

Loudoun was next to him. John noted she was breathing through her mouth, as though she was trying not to smell the odor of seared flesh and menthol.

_Won't work… it gets in your hair and clothes and you carry it home with you… a gruesome souvenir of the job…._

Trout had told them that the flooring was sound, so John approached the sofa for a closer examination. Loudoun followed him, but her quickened breathing warned she wasn't easy with the situation.

_The total area of observable skin has incurred full thickness burns… the burned tissue is hard and leathery, mottled brown in color on the extremities and charred black on the torso, neck, and head… all observable body hair has been consumed by the fire, leaving the skin of the genitals and scalp exposed… since arson investigators strongly suspect an accelerant was used, the presence of more severe burn injury to the victim's torso and head suggests said accelerant was poured on the victim prior to ignition of the blaze…._

John ignored the open rictus where her lips had been and her lack of eyelids and eyes.

_The stuff of nightmares…._

"Has the M.E. been here?" he asked.

Whelan nodded.

"We didn't let them turn the body. They're now working a shooting a couple blocks over. The plan is to call them back when you release the body."

John reared back so he could stare down his nose at the fire marshall.

_Uh, uh—I'm not falling for that one…._

"I can't release the body if the case isn't mine. As far as I can see, this isn't a sex crime. It's either a murder followed by arson or a murder by arson. You call the Three-Oh or maybe Manhattan Homicide and let them release the body for you."

Trout stepped back from the sofabed.

"I'll let you guys sort this out," he said before he headed for the hall.

_Smart man… he recognizes a NYPD turf war when he sees one…._

Whelan came around to the end of the sofa. He pointed to the victim's crotch.

"No panties, Munch. That makes it a sex crime."

Munch made an exaggerated turn toward Loudoun and gave her his best 'Why does the world do this to me?' sigh.

_Follow my lead, Loudoun or we're going to be stuck doing someone else's work…._

She flashed him a quick smile then slowly shook her head for Whelan's benefit.

"It's July, Whelan," she informed him. "With no A/C, it was hot in here even before the fire. She was dressed, or rather undressed, for comfort in this heat. Look—"

Loudoun leaned forward and waved her hand across the body. Only the set of her jaw showed how difficult not retching was for her.

"No signs of covers," she said. "Just a nightshirt or some such."

Whelan shifted the aim of his finger to the remnants of leather strap around the foot nearest him.

"But she was tied to the bed!"

John smirked at him.

"You know a better way to keep a victim perfectly still while you set fire to her?"

Next to him, Loudoun assumed an pose of adamant refusal to cooperate, her hands set on both her hips, her feet firmly planted on the charred floor. Whelan looked from Munch to her, then back to Munch.

"How about you help me turn the body?" he asked. "If you're still not convinced, then I'll release the body to the M.E.—but I'm kicking it back to SVU if the autopsy finds fluids. Got it?"

Munch pursed his lips to show he was thinking it over. Next to him, Loudoun held her stance.

_It's actually a reasonable suggestion… I'll give him a second or two more to twist in the wind, then I'll say…._

"Okay. I'll give you a hand."

Whelan fished four nitrile gloves from his coat pocket and tossed two of them to Munch. As soon as their hands were protected, they gently raised the body from the sleeper-sofa's mattress. Charred skin slid loose under their grip, prompting a gag from Loudoun.

"Not here," Munch snapped at her. "In the hall if you have to."

_Don't mention 'vomit' or she will hu__ŗ__l…._

She gasped once then held her breath. Munch ignored her efforts at control as he helped Whelan roll the body onto its right hip. With the body tipped away from the mattress, the three of them could see what had been protected from the fire.

"Looks like a white cotton sheet on the bed and a pink t-shirt on the victim," Whelan noted. "You see any sign of a bra?"

"No."

The answer came from Loudoun, whose voice shook only a little as she replied.

They rolled the body back into position then Munch nodded to Whelan.

_Since you've been a good sport about losing…._

"Whelan," he said, "if the M.E. finds any hint this case should be ours, I'll take it without complaint."

"Yeah, fine," Whelan groused. "By then, it will be as cold as January."

Munch was about to shrug away the complaint when he caught Loudoun's gaze resting on him.

_I know that expression… the raised eyebrow, the frown… what's wrong with refusing a case that isn't in our purview? There's plenty of homicide detectives available…._

He turned back to look at the body.

_Granted it is quicker to bind wrists and ankles together and that's just as effective as far as immobilizing them… spread-eagle can indicate a rapist did the binding…._

John sighed.

_And I did say something about cases deserving our best… someone remind me to keep my mouth shut, at least once in a while…._

"Okay, Whelan—it's ours. Call the M.E. and tell them I released the body to them."

Whelan's relief showed in his grin.

"I'll get you the responders' observations during the fire and Trout's results for his canvass of the building's occupants."

He left the apartment to make the necessary calls. Munch gave his crime scene a sour frown.

_No forensics to speak over, thanks to the fire… we're even assuming the victim is Cynthia Williamson… from the condition of the body, she could be any female in the city except Loudoun here.…_

Donna joined him by the body.

"Thanks, Munch," she said. "I'd hate to have gone through all this just to walk away."

John focused his glare at her.

"If the M.E. doesn't find DNA in her," he warned, "Cragen will kill me. If killing me doesn't assuage his anger, you'll go next."

Loudoun crossed her middle finger over her index one.

"Here's hoping."


	4. Suspicious Minds: part two

A/N: HIU = Homicide Investigation Unit, the bureau of the New York County District Attorney's office that handles non-Asian gang-related murders.

SEUI = Service Employees International Union

Residence of Monica Tillotson  
212 W. 99th Street  
23 July (Friday)

After she updated Cragen about the current cases, Benson checked out a car so she and Stabler could work the Tillotson call. Mrs. Tillotson, the woman who had called about her son, was a tall, angular woman in her fifties. She wore her brown hair in a wedge and she was dressed in draw-string yoga pants and a yellow t-shirt. She greeted Stabler and Benson then offered coffee, which they both declined politely. The three of them spent the next five minutes seated in her living room and engaging in polite chit-chat while Tillotson worked up enough courage to explain why she had called SVU.

Olivia noted that the woman was directing most of her attention to Elliot.

_Which means she's more comfortable with him on this... suits me...._

Certain her partner also would spot this and run with the conversation, Olivia slid her notepad and pen out. Right on cue, Elliot gave Mrs. Tillotson a reassuring smile.

"What," he asked, "do you need from us?"

Mrs. Tillotson eyed the front door as though wishing her guests would leave through it. When neither detective did so, she spoke up.

"It's my son, Joel. He owns Urban Jungle; it's a company that supply plants for trade shows and events—weddings and such. About six months ago, he moved back in with me. He said his girlfriend had left him and he needed time to put his life back together."

She straightened on the sofa, her shoulders hunched forward as though she wanted to pounce on them.

"But he isn't spending his time getting his act together. He's spending it with them. I need you to do something. It's not right what he's doing with them here—here in my home."

The venom laden on the word "them" sent a chill down Olivia's spine. She saw Elliot stiffen slightly then deliberately relax so as to calm the woman next to him.

"That's what we're here for," he assured Tillotson. "Now, if you'll tell me what's not right about 'them'?"

Both detectives watch as Mrs. Tillotson did a perfect imitation of a goldfish.

_Mouth open... mouth closed... mouth open... mouth closed... but she's not making a sound... at least there's no bubbles...._

"It's okay, Mrs. Tillotson. We're heard everything. You can't embarrass us."

His words did nothing to assure the woman. Her hands clasped about one another until her knuckles turned white.

"Maybe you should go see for yourself," she whispered. "Down the hall on the right."

Olivia turned to her partner, who already was looking at her.

_Might as well... it's that or wait for Joel to come home and tell us who 'them' are...._

Elliot stood up, a move Olivia followed. Mrs. Tillotson stayed on the sofa, her hands still firmly clasped on her lap. As soon as the detectives had turned the corner to the hallway, Elliot leaned close to his partner.

"Guy works with large potted plants," he whispered. "Think this is a 'Feed me, Seymour' deal?"

Olivia clamped her teeth together to keep from laughing.

"Stop it," she hissed. "Get serious."

Elliot ignored the order with a sly smile, but he moved down the hall without further comment. Once at the door, he drew his service weapon and waited for Benson to position herself on the other side of the door.

"Ready?" he whispered.

At her nod, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.

_What the hell?_

Olivia crowded Elliot for a better look.

"Damn," she said.

"Yeah. Three of them."

"That's—what? Eighteen, twenty thousand?"

"At least."

The room was Joel's bedroom-sitting room, furnished with a black futon currently rigged as a sofa, a wooden dresser, desk and chair, and a red wingback chair with a matching ottoman. The futon was occupied by an Asian woman in a red sarong, its silk opened to display the swell of her pendulous breasts. A Nordic blonde, her pale skin wrapped in a dark blue negligee, sprawled on the wingback chair, her heels propped on the ottoman. A red-haired beauty sat splay-legging in the desk chair, her pose displaying her emerald-studded G-string and pasties. An open closet held men's clothing while bright-colored lingerie hung from a metal rack.

Elliot holstered his Glock.

"We're in the wrong line of work," he said, his attention on the bejeweled pasties, "Renting plants pays a hell of a lot better than police work."

Olivia nodded her agreement, but the three figures paid no attention to his comment.

_Amazing... this guy has not one, not two, but three high-priced sex dolls... life-like and anatomically correct... as much like blow-up dolls as Barbies are like paper dolls...._

She stepped into the room as she holstered her weapon. Elliot left the door open then walked over to stare down at the brunette.

"What do you think," he asked. "Double-D?"

Olivia shook her head.

"I looked it up once. Biggest cup size available is G."

Eliot repeated the letter once before giving a low whistle.

"Man, letting them hang like that has got to hurt."

Olivia bit back a retort.

_Tell me about it...._

He then gave the doll a poke in the shoulder.

"She's assumed room temperature. Must give Joel a real chilly reception when he gets home."

Olivia focused her gaze on the ceiling.

_You get one more bad joke before I mention discrimination against Silicone-Americans... truth is, the three of them really creep me out... they're too fake to look alive, but they're too life-like to look normal... even a dead body has more dignity than they do...._

Elliot looked back at Olivia.

"You think he ever takes them for drives?" he asked. "Maybe uses them to get into the HOV lanes?"

Before Olivia could say something sharp in reply, Mrs. Tillotson's voice came from the hallway.

"My son calls the Chinese one 'Mai Ling.' The blonde is Inger, and the redhead is Ginger. He talks to them like they are real. I didn't mind that too much—so long as he keeps them in his room. But now he wants them to join us at the supper table and watch TV with us. I'm supposed to treat them like they're his girlfriends, not... not...."

Her voice trailed off before finishing. Olivia met Elliot's gaze.

_We both got it... they're okay as sex toys, but only behind closed doors.... can't say I blame you... the three of them staring blankly into space is really annoying...._

Elliot broke her train of thought.

"What do you think?" he asked in a low voice. "Should we confront Joel about his 'friends' or give his mom some hints for handling this?"

Olivia pursed her lips as she considered the matter.

"You want to explain to Mrs. Tillotson how sex with silicone mannequins is a normal part of male sexuality, and she should welcome them as her daughters-in-law?"

Elliot shook his head.

"No way. I was thinking of having her urge Joel to move out. After all...."

He waved a hand at the rack of lingerie.

"I know from personal experience that three women can't be happy sharing one rack of clothing. We'll get Mrs. Tillotson to convince her son that Ginger, Mai Ling, and Inger each need a closet of her own."

Olivia glanced about the room then she grinned.

"El, that's brilliant. Seriously, it is."

Mrs. Tillotson agreed with Olivia's assessment. She promised to broach the subject with her son that evening.

"That's all I wanted," she told them. "Some way to keep them from eating dinner with me. It's not natural. I mean—they don't chew."

Elliot flinched. Olivia spoke up to cover his reaction.

"I'm glad we could help out, Mrs. Tillotson. You call us if you need anything else."

She held out a business card, which the woman accepted with thanks.

_An easy problem quickly solved... can't knock that...._

Office of A.D.A Casey Novak  
One Hogan Place  
23 July

Casey was wearing moss green that Friday, a simple cotton top with black slacks. She sat at her desk with a folder in her left hand and a fork full of _mu shu_ pork in her right. Captain Cragen was across from her, a spoon and a small container of egg drop soup occupying his hands while he listened to the dispositions of the arrests made during the mop-up of the fake-id sex criminals.

"I'm not getting the Erastais Management prosecution," Casey told him. "Branch handed it to the white collar crime guys."

Don made sympathetic noises, but Casey shrugged away his concern.

"I am getting the fifteen perverts you arrested in Manhattan. With my current caseload, that's enough to keep me missing practice for the rest of the season."

She paused for a disgruntled frown. Don took a sip of his soup.

_The second I got here, my stomach knotted up again… pretending I'm too nauseated to eat is not a problem…._

He noticed that Casey was still frowning.

"Too bad about the softball, Casey," he said, hoping he'd picked up on the correct cue. "Are all fifteen going to trial?"

"Thankfully, no," she replied. "Of the fifteen, four took the plea bargain offered to them. I'm doing one allocution Monday, the rest later next week. Two have outstanding warrants in other states for crimes more serious than what we're charging. We'll ship them out as soon as those states are ready for them."

"That leaves nine. What about them?"

Casey paused to scrape the last morsel of Chinese food from the cardboard container.

"Unless they accept a deal beforehand," she told him, "we go to trial. Unfortunately, your three arrests all demanded their day in court. Lucky you."

"Lucky me," Don agreed. "It's been a while since I've had to face a defense attorney."

She gave him a wry grin.

"Let's hope you remember how to stay prepped. Anyway, Van Brocklyn wants his client's trial ASAP so it's on the calendar for a week from Monday. Evers and Marietta get to wait until fall thanks to Legal Aid being backed up."

She tapped a finger on her desk calendar while Cragen fished his daybook from his jacket pocket.

"I figure I'll need you Tuesday mid-morning. Prep will have to be Friday afternoon."

Cragen flipped to the correct pages.

_Friday, July 30__th__… Tuesday, August 3rd—I've got lunch with the contract team on Monday, but nothing scheduled when Casey needs me…._

"I'm good those days," he told her.

"What about September, October? You'll be available even after you're promoted, right?"

Don made note of the prep and trial dates in his daybook.

_She makes it sound like a sure thing…._

"Casey," he replied, "that's 'if', not 'when.' I'm facing long odds on this one."

She pitched her food container into the trash and motioned for his container.

"Not from what I hear. This time, you're the Red Sox, not the Cubs."

_Sounds like my cue… so chuckle and blow it off… see if how far she'll go to support her statement…._

Don aimed his gaze downward and tried to look bashful.

"Yeah, right—me the Red Sox. Sure."

Casey took the foam cup from his hand and sent it into the wastebasket with a practiced toss. She then rested her elbows on her desk and aimed both index fingers at him.

"Yes, you. In fact, I am very jealous of you. When I first learned Branch was putting Andrew in charge of Sex Crimes, I started angling for his attention. Nobody is better than he is at getting his favorites noticed. You remember Keith Schmidt?"

Don thought for a moment.

"Isn't he the A.D.A who argues with Munch about drug laws?"

Casey nodded. "Ol' Straight Arrow Keith, who firmly believes no honest cop could know as much about the subject as John does. He actually wanted John to take a pee test after their last go-round."

_As if we don't already take those tests…._

"I haven't see him around recently."

"You won't," Casey told him, "not unless 'around' means Albany. Last May, Andrew got Keith a cushy job on the Governor's legal team. He's now soliciting comments and opinions from corporate management about pending legislation—getting wined and dined at their expense."

Don noted the hint of envy in her voice.

"I was hoping," Casey continued, "maybe Andrew would play fairy godfather with me next—give my career a push the way he did Keith. Instead, he starts working with you."

She leaned forward on her elbows and lowered her voice.

"It's a good thing you're such a nice guy, Don, or I'd have put something in your soup just to get even."

Don faked a smile at her jest.

_That makes Andrew a serial promoter of subordinates… nothing to worry about... except PTSD, paranoia, and a trip to the departmental shrink in my near future for suspecting a friend…._

"The promotion list comes out the third week in August," he told her. "Make it or not, it's my last chance so your boss will need a new project."

Casey's eyes brightened for a moment then her excitement faded.

"Now that I think about it," she said, "there's you, Keith, Randy Blais from HIU, Jim Stephanos, Marc Newman—all of you plumbed different from me."

A glum frown distorted her lips.

"Maybe I should give up on getting Andrew's support, and start drafting a sexual bias complaint instead."

Don felt his jaw drop.

_Men only? Beale's too political an animal to open himself up for a bias complaint unless he can't help himself… that's a red flag right there…._

Casey's eyes narrowed as she studied his expression. Don clamped his teeth together and wondered what he had given away.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Casey assured him. "Besides, you're hardly a protégé—you and Andrew are good friends."

Don pretended to look relieved.

"Yes, you're right," he admitted. "We are."

_But I can't convince my gut of that…._

"Where are these guys now?" he asked. "I mean, your boss seems very good at this, but it never hurts to find out how good."

Casey stared into space as she thought.

"Randy is in D.C.—a lobbyist for SEUI. Jim is on the mayor's Task Force on Sustainability—not too shabby, considering he was Andrew's law clerk over at HUI. Marc was named to finish State Assemblyman Frank Grotke's term—he's the guy who got caught with his pants down at the Greyhound station in Brooklyn."

Don smiled as though the news gratified him.

"Sounds like he really does get results."

Casey pointed at him and chuckled.

"Just look at you. Who'd of thought a month ago that you had a serious shot at deputy inspector? Now, it looks like you'll not only get promoted, you'll be Richardson's fair-haired boy…."

She glanced at his forehead and blushed at her choice of phrase. Don waved off her embarrassment.

"And all this is out of the goodness of his heart," he said. "He is really something."

_Yeah, but what?_

Casey glanced at her desk clock then began to gather the papers on her desk.

"Enjoy it, Don. Just understand—I'm serving you decaf from now on. It's my way of getting even for Andrew preferring to help you over me."

She slid the stack of papers into her briefcase.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have meetings with defense counsels at two o'clock, two-forty-five, and three-fifteen. Thanks to you guys, my work is never done."

Cragen walked with her to the hall. When Casey turned toward the stairs, he said his good-byes to her then headed for the elevator.

_I need to get out of here before Beale gets back… then I need to figure out what I'm going to do… Casey didn't say anything that helps—Beale working with only male subordinates can go either way… in this day and age, spending extra time with a female report can get a manager in some very hot water… on the other hand, predators tend to stick with a favorite type of victim… so, where do I go from here?_

The hall leading to the elevator was deserted, whether due to long lunches or everyone having taken off early on Friday was unknown to Cragen. He came to a halt before the elevator and used the solitude to consider his choices.

_Push "Down" and head back to my unit… then put in for medical leave and don't come back until I stop suspecting the people around me… "Up" takes me to the DA's office, where I tell him the man who is moving heaven and earth to get me promoted is really a predator…._

The knot in his stomach tightened.

_I know how it feels be betrayed by a friend, to find out someone I trust like a brother is a crooked son-of-a-bitch… once I knew that fact for certain, I turned in O'Farrell and then I turned in Sullivan—in their eyes, I betrayed them, but I didn't—I did what was right… I don't like thinking I'm crazy, but that's my only other choice—for Beale, I don't have proof… I'm not certain about—shit!_

A chill ran through his veins, clearing Don's head and clarifying his thoughts.

_If I really believed Beale was my friend, if I really was certain of that fact, wouldn't I be thinking of him, calling him by his first name? I'm not… I haven't been__… __I may not have proof, but I am certain…._

Don's hand hung in the air before the two elevator buttons.

_I've been down this road twice before… I don't think I can survive another trip... but now I know I don't have a choice…._

He stuck out his index finger and pressed the "Up" button.

Office of Arthur Branch  
One Hogan Place  
23 July

"Sarah, I'm going to wander around. I'll be back in a little bit."

With that, Arthur Branch took leave of his office and his administrative assistant to see what, if anything, was stirring in his domain.

_Discover who's skipping school on a fine Friday afternoon and who's got their noses to the grindstone… it amazes me how many people think they won't get caught…._

He got as far as the elevator, which opened at his approach to let out a bald man wearing an expensive suit and a worried expression. The man's frown deepened when he saw the DA standing before him.

_He's looking at me like his wife and his shotgun are missing and it's my fault… he also looks familiar—something to do with Special Victims, if I remember rightly…._

"Captain, uh—Cragen, isn't it?" Branch asked.

The man squared his shoulders and nodded.

"Yes, sir," he replied. "I was on my way to your office to make an appointment to see you."

The DA took a moment to reexamine the captain's expression and bearing.

_He's fixing to spit something nasty on my plate… not because he wants to ruin my supper, but because it's sticking in his craw and it has to come out… and I don't have a clue what it might be…._

"Well, Captain," he said with more goodwill than he felt, "it just so happens that I have nothing scheduled until three o'clock, at which time I plan to leave for a weekend with a beautiful woman and our darling grandchildren. Shall we talk in my office?"

He swept the air with his hand to indicate the way. Cragen nodded then walked the hall with all the grace of a man heading to the gallows. From the safety of the rear, Branch scowled at the captain.

_If he's trying an end-run over some mistake by Sex Crimes, I'm sending him right back to Andrew… I don't like it when people go over my peoples' heads… that's why God made EADAs and bureau chiefs—to catch this crap before it reaches me…._

As he passed Sarah at her desk, Branch asked her to hold his calls. Once inside his office, he directed Cragen to a side chair before taking his own seat in his desk chair. While Cragen settled himself, Branch slid some papers around the surface of his desk, using the motions as misdirection while his left hand flipped through a slim leather-bound notebook to the page he needed.

_A, B, C… Caffey, Conrad, Cragen… oh, yes—the recent removal of Chief Sullivan… hmm—Schiff also used him to bring down Chief O'Farrell—I'm surprised he's still on the force after that one…._

Branch offered to have Sarah bring them both coffee while he continued to read.

…_and his unit brought murder charges against Stephanie Mulroney… and Drew Lamerly… no wonder election funds are tight—Cragen has busted most of the Social Register…._

When Cragen turned down the offer, Branch closed the notebook.

_Just enough smile to look interested, not enough to make him think I'll give him the store…._

"Now, what can I do for you, Captain?"

Slowly at first, but then with more urgency, Cragen explained his suspicions about Andrew Beale. Branch held his facial expression steady as he listened.

_I expected criticism over the outcome of a trial—the police always think they know more about the law than my ADAs do… and I thought Andrew and Cragen were golf buddies… but this… this…._

Unable to put a description to it, Branch instead asked, "Captain, do you have facts to back up what you're claiming?"

Cragen grimaced as though his stomach hurt before answering.

"No, sir—I don't. I know only that Beale's actions are consistent with those of a serial predator, and that Beale helps only his male reports to achieve promotions and advancements.

_That's not very persuasive…._

"Specifically…?" Branch prompted.

"Keith Schmidt, Randy Blais, Jim Stephanos, Marc Newman," Cragen replied. "I don't have particulars. Of the four, I only know ADA Schmidt personally; he prosecuted some of our cases."

Branch wrote down the four names. After a glance to ensure that Cragen could not see what he had written, he underlined Newman's name.

_Maybe it's merely coincidence—Lord, I pray that's the case—but Newman's name guarantees I'll listen… even if it sounds more like a fever dream than anything solid…._

He set his pen down and peered more closely at Cragen.

"So, you don't know those other three men?"

"No, sir."

Branch upped the intensity of his glare. Cragen did not flinch.

"Have you mentioned any of this to Bureau Chief Beale."

"No, sir."

"Has Andrew Beale done anything or said anything to you or to anyone reporting to you that could be construed as improper?"

"No, sir."

_He hasn't wavered a bit… time to try to shake him… sound like I'm not buying what he's selling…._

Branch sat back in his chair and raised an eyebrow in feigned disbelief.

"So," he said, drawling the word until it dripped with sarcasm, "this story you're telling me is supported by what? Your good looks?"

Cragen stared Branch straight in his eyes.

"Sir, the only thing I have to support this is experience and gut instinct."

Branch waited for Cragen to delineate his many years of experience or for him to list the many cases by which his instincts had been proven correct, but Cragen said nothing more.

_He knows I know his reputation… he doesn't need to trumpet it to carry his point… now, let's see how far he's willing to take this…._

Branch kept the one scornful eyebrow raised.

"Captain," he asked, "Bureau Chief Beale is a good man who doesn't have a single blot on his record. Could you be wrong about him?"

_Say 'No way' after such a paucity of evidence, and I'll toss you right out of here.… _

Cragen's straightforward gaze lost its focus; his eyes shifted back and forth as though deciding which answer to give. Finally, he drew in a deep breath.

"Sir," he replied, "the past few weeks have been very rocky. It's possible that stress is affecting my judgment. I can't honestly tell you otherwise."

Branch let his doubting expression soften.

_That was hard for him to admit, but he did it… judging from how long it took, he also considered what happens to him if he is wrong… now, to find how much he'll put on the table to pay for a mistaken accusation…._

"What if you are wrong about Andrew? Are you willing—"

Cragen's answer cut off Branch's question.

"I'll immediately put in for retirement. I couldn't continue in my command after making such a mistake."

"Will you do the same if an investigation clears him?"

A single nod from Cragen affirmed his answer. Branch steepled his fingers and rested their tips on his chin as he regarded the captain.

_Man looks haunted… he hates what he is doing, but he can't walk away from it, neither… got to admire that kind of integrity… even if I wish he'd found somewhere else to display it…._

Branch quickly ran through his options.

_I could tell him "go away"—I won't, but it is an option… I can thank him for his concern then do nothing—judging from the determination he's showing, Cragen won't let this field go fallow without a fight... given his expert opinion and the people involved, no one would question my decision to go forward with an investigation—except Andrew, who will resent the hell out of it… I may have put him in as Bureau Chief, but he's not the sort I want to anger… he's too adept and cunning for me to rile him up without good cause…._

The lack of viable choices left a sour taste in his mouth. The DA sucked his teeth in frustration as he pondered the only one left.

_I guess it can't be helped…._

He leaned forward and smiled at Cragen.

_Hope you're a good liar, Captain—it's a skill you're going to need…._

"By any chance," he asked, "do you know the phrase 'a Chinese wall'?"

A wry smile curved Cragen's mouth as he nodded.

"At the last leadership workshop I went to," he told the DA, "we were told to call it an 'ethical wall.'"

Branch sneered at the correction.

_Ethical wall? What ham-handed bureaucrat came up with that phrase?_

"Damn mealy-mouthed PC conventions," he groused. "They're turning English into mush not fit for adult palates. Ethical walls…."

He let out a 'harrump' before signaling a return to the subject at hand with a finger pointed at Cragen's tie.

"As of now," he told Cragen, "an ethical wall is what you're behind. After you leave here, you'll act as though nothing—I repeat, nothing is wrong between you and Bureau Chief Beale. Understand?"

The shock that widened Cragen's eyes served as his answer.

"You know why I'm taking this course of action?"

'"Yes, sir," Cragen replied. "My knowledge and actions may influence Beale's actions. If he cleans up his act to avoid being caught, it will keep you from proving he is what I think he is."

"Exactly," Branch told him, his head nodding to emphasize the point. "Until you hear otherwise, Andrew is nothing more than an out-of-shape golfer whom you are free to beat like a rented mule—and no, you can't tell him I said that."

The joke failed to brighten Cragen's mood. He sat stock-still, spine and shoulders straight, the pose of a man facing a firing squad.

"Don't worry," Branch assured him. "I won't leave you twisting in the wind any longer than necessary. As soon as this matter is settled, you will be the first person I call. Of course, should my investigation clear Andrew, I intend to hold you to your promise about retirement."

Cragen met Branch's gaze and nodded.

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"Yes, there is. I want you to arrange for that psych evaluation. Have the results sent to me personally. I'll make certain no one else sees them."

The resentment Branch expected from Cragen did not manifest in his expression or reply. The captain merely nodded.

_Good man—he has the courage of his convictions… I hope they're enough to sustain him through the next few days…or weeks…._

"Now, you'd better go so I can get to work deciding how best to proceed with this."

Cragen got out of his chair and stood stiffly by it. His dark eyes were unfocused as though trying to observe the enormity of the task ahead of him.

"Thank you, sir," he said, his voice low and raspy.

"Don't thank me," Branch snapped at him. "I'd rather you took a crap on my desk."

To his surprise, Cragen smiled.

"So would I, sir."

With that parting comment, Cragen left Branch's office. Branch waited until he had had time to clear the outer office, then he buzzed Sarah.

"Find Jack McCoy," he told her. "If he's in the building, send him in here immediately. If he's left, get him back here ASAP."

He then went to his computer and opened the personnel database. He called up the records for Bureau Chief Beale and the four men listed by Cragen. When his office door opened, he blanked the screen before glancing over his shoulder. His visitor was wearing jeans, a racing-weight leather jacket too heavy for the summer temperatures, and he was holding a motorcycle helmet by its chin bar.

Branch greeted him with a chuckle.

"Caught you sneaking out early—huh, Jack?"

Jack McCoy glanced down at the helmet and sighed.

"Suppose I said I was holding it when Sarah called me, and I didn't take the time to put it away?"

"I wouldn't believe you," Branch told him. "Sit down and tell me what you think of Donald Cragen, Manhattan SVU."

McCoy sprawled on the leather couch and set the helmet beside him.

"As far as I've heard," he told Arthur, "Donald Cragen is an honest cop who caught some bad breaks along the way. I personally don't know him that well. You want to know more, you should ask Andrew Beale or one of his ADAs."

Arthur let his shoulders slump, aware that Jack would see the motion and wonder what was weighing on his boss' mind.

"Jack, I wish it were that easy."

He quickly told how Cragen had all but accused the bureau chief of preying on his male subordinates.

"I'll give the captain credit—he did admit the possibility that the fallout from bringing down Tommy Sullivan might have affected his judgment, but he's gut sure about what he told me. With that and with what you just told me, I'm inclined to treat the matter seriously."

Jack had started shaking his head in protest halfway through Arthur's recitation. When the DA finished speaking, he gave it one more vehement shake.

"But, Arthur—this is Andrew Beale he's accusing. Beach balls are more threatening than he is."

Arthur chuckled to himself.

"Jack, you ever watch a TV show called 'The Prisoner?' Seems to me the beach balls in it were very threatening."

Jack's puzzled frown told him that 1960s British spy shows weren't part of his world.

_Pity… a touch of the surreal now and then helps us appreciate the real…._

"Okay, suppose I tell you which four men Cragen thinks Beale targeted before deciding to come after him."

The offhand shrug Jack gave his boss warned Arthur that Cragen's evidence better be persuasive.

"Well, there's Keith Schmidt…"

Jack laughed through his nose at the thought of Schmidt as anyone's prey.

"… Randy Blais and Jim Stephanos…"

A rueful smile and a shake of Jack's head dismissed both men.

"… and Marc Newman."

Jack's eyebrows shot to the top of their range. He sat bolt upright and stared at his boss.

"You're not saying…."

Arthur sighed.

"I don't know what I'm saying—yet. Captain Cragen told me he had no knowledge about any of these men except for Schmidt. I checked their personnel records and only Schmidt was assigned to Sex Crimes, which backs up what Cragen said."

Jack blinked a couple of times. Arthur held his tongue so he could ponder the facts in quiet.

"They never found a note explaining Marc's suicide," Jack finally said. "Everyone assumed it had something to do with his girlfriend leaving him a few weeks earlier. There wasn't even a hint of blackmail or coercion or…."

He ended the sentence with a hard swallow as though fighting nausea.

_I know how you feel… every time Cragen used the word 'predator,' I had to remind myself he meant 'bondage-and-rape,' not 'hunting-for-food'… hard to believe Beale might have traded his influence and contacts for some form of sexual pay-off from an unwilling participant…._

Jack's thought were traveling the same path, judging from his next words.

"John Wayne Gacy, Dennis Rader, Darryl Kern, Andrew Beale—I'm sorry, Arthur, but it doesn't follow. There's no way Andrew could have….

Again, Jack let his sentence trail off before changing subjects.

"If Captain Cragen isn't right about this," he told Arthur, "he needs serious psychiatric help."

"Which is why," Arthur replied, "we're going to see where this leads. Think we can handle this in-house without Beale getting wind of it?"

McCoy's opinion was expressed as a sharp snort of laughter.

"The second you assign it to one of our investigators, Andrew will know it. It's like he has antenna aimed in every room of this place."

"For that reason alone, I should wonder about him," Arthur mused. "Maybe he sees himself sitting in my chair."

"You'll have to get out of it first."

Arthur gave the jest a tight smile.

"If not in-house, then who, Jack? Who can we trust to run this down?"

Jack pondered the question for a moment, then said, "If you're hunting a sexual predator, then you want SVU. Problem is, Manhattan's unit is led by Cragen and Beale, which is like asking the chickens to investigate the farmer."

"I may have taken care of that one," Arthur told him. "I already told Cragen we're erecting a Chinese wall around him until this matter is resolved."

Jack shook his finger at his boss.

"Nowadays, it's 'ethical wall'," he corrected.

Arthur frowned at the finger chastising him.

"What? Did everyone get that memo but me?"

Jack grinned at him. "Everyone knows you ignore those kinds of memos."

Arthur matched the grin with a slow smile of his own.

"Damn right, but that's beside the point. You're thinking I should have Cragen's unit investigate this?"

Jack nodded. "They know more about this kind of crime than anyone we have. If you're right about Beale, they'll see it first. Besides, if he does get wind of it, the last people Beale would suspect us of using would be Cragen's people."

Arthur opened his leather-bound notebook and flipped its pages until he found the one he needed.

"Then we'll use Stabler and Benson," he read. "Both have good close records and good reputations—I'll have Sarah get them in here Monday morning."


	5. Reluctance

A/N: prurient: _noun_, marked by or arousing an immoderate or unwholesome interest or desire

For those of you who don't remember, Chester Lake fought amateur mixed martial arts bouts until sidelined with a knee injury.

The Church of Saint Michael  
W. 34th Street  
26 July (Monday)

Those who had attended the seven-thirty morning Mass that Monday morning were departing the church for work or breakfast when Don Cragen entered the sanctuary. He avoided eye contact with them as he made his way to the votive stand in the side chapel.

His weekend had been long and rough. It started Friday afternoon with lies told to his driver Charlie and Chloe his shift admin to explain his going home early.

_That was the easy part… nobody wants a sick captain vomiting on their desks…. _

The same lie postponed his date with Tullia.

_I offered to call her Sunday if I 'felt better,' but her oldest grandson had his eighth birthday that day… I want those oak leaves firmly in place on my collar before I risk a Balzano family function… she rescheduled for tonight—we'll go over my talk and have dinner… so I practiced that damn speech over and over, making sure I could get through it without thinking of Beale and shuddering…._

When he was certain he could perform without piquing Tullia's curiosity, Don had tackled the next problem on his list.

_I tried to figure out who I could get a psych review from… if I have to act like nothing is wrong, then I can't talk to anyone who knows Beale—not unless I lie for the evaluation… I've had plenty of practice lying, but I don't think I can fool a shrink…. _

He finally had settled on Elizabeth Olivet, who gave him an appointment for Thursday afternoon. She did not question his story about him putting off the evaluation ordered after the Sullivan matter.

_I know her from my Homicide days… she now does very little police work, but she's still on the roster… she won't know the current gossip, so I'll explain Operation Chestnut and its aftermath, and just not mention the rest of it…._

That left the problem of Andrew Beale. Don had handled that by taking a sleeping pill early Friday night so he would miss Beale's check-up call. He then postponed returning that call until Saturday afternoon.

_There are two places where Beale won't answer his cell—golf courses and bathrooms… I can't time his pit stops, but, on Saturdays at two p.m., he's somewhere on the back nine….._

That had given Don time to prep for talking directly with him.

_A lot of prayer, a lot of role-playing, just like I was preparing for an undercover assignment… I ran through all the positive things he's done for me… all the good advice, the praise, the golf, the dinners—all of it, over and over until I could respond to him like a friend and not like I fear him… I practiced using "Andrew" in conversations until I could say it without gagging… I envisioned him shaking my hand, putting a friendly hand on my shoulder, walking next to me until I was sure I could withstand those gestures without flinching… I built a façade that, to both Beale and my people, should look just like the Donald Cragen who has been single-mindedly chasing a promotion… by the time Andrew called me back, I was psyched up and ready to lie my socks off…._

Andrew had taken Don's excuses at face value.

_Not a bit of suspicion in his voice… just a "You take care of yourself, Don—we have a busy week ahead of us"… I even managed to suggest lunch Monday without a problem… I should be good to go on this…._

Don pulled some coins from his pocket and slid them into the votive stand's metal receptacle, wincing as the clatter echoed through the chapel.

_One candle for Brewster's shift, one for Benson's... I light these and pray that Saint Michael and all God's holy angels will protect us and keep us safe today... and I ask forgiveness for slacking off on this…._

He then lit a third candle.

_And give me the wisdom and strength to get through this… as I try to keep Andrew from suspecting anything… as I lie to my people and ignore their needs even though I now realize what I'm doing to them… help me to accept retirement if Olivet and Branch decides I should step down… and if that is the case, help me to apologize to everyone for my paranoia… or, if it ends up that I'm right, help me to turn the tables on Beale—help me trap him before he can trap me…._

His resolve held until he reached the hall outside SVU. The sight of his people gathered together around the coffee pot brought him up short.

_Everyone but Fin and Couch… Judith has her hand in the air…something bright catching the light—a diamond? Has she lost her mind? _

He watched as Lake read something from a notepad, something the other detectives found extremely humorous.

_Despite everything, they're still a team… shows what good people they are…._

The urge to join them at the coffee pot, to put aside his worries and laugh with them, impelled him to take a step towards the door. his second step faltered when Benson shifted her stance and spotted him.

_Boy, her smile vanished in a hurry…._

It was enough to drive the message home.

_I am not welcome… they're doing just fine without me…._

Sixteenth Precinct  
Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
26 July

Elliot and Olivia's desks were littered with notes taken from a couple of attempted rapes that had occurred Saturday night, the two possibly related. Behind Olivia's chair, thanks to the recent partner reshuffle, were Fin and Couch's desks, both covered with surveillance tapes, DVDs, and reports from the canvassing at the 157th Street station, where the Dominican persons of interest in the nightclub attack had left the One train. The detectives themselves were out canvassing at the Jamaica Center station, where the B&T group had gotten off the E train.

Beyond their vacant places were Chester and Judith's desks, hers empty of work, his stacked with David Banks' financial records and LUDs, gathered by Lake while Otten was in Chicago with Fontana. John and Donna were now at desks next to Fin and Couch; Donna's computer displayed recent arson deaths, while John's desk was littered with diagrams of the burnt-out apartment and reports from CSU and the arson team.

Not that Stabler, Benson, Munch, Lake, or Loudoun were paying attention to the work on their desks. All five were at the coffee pot, gathered in a circle around Judith Otten's left hand, which she obligingly held up for all to see.

"It's a gold ring with Art Deco filigree," Chester announced, "yellow diamond, European cut, about three carats, full bezel setting."

He then checked his notepad.

"Olivia had 'platinum, marquise-cut, one carat,'" he read aloud. "Elliot took 'big-assed diamond in one of those pointy settings.'"

Everyone snorted at the lame description. Elliot shrugged off their sneers.

"I know baseball diamonds, not jewelry ones," he said in his defense.

"Whatever, Stabler," Lake replied. "Now, John put his money on 'princess-cut, gold, two carats.' Donna went with a round stone in a bezel setting—'something large and securely set,' and Fin blew it by taking 'no ring.'"

Olivia smiled to herself.

_Nicely put, Lake… Fin actually said, 'Five bucks on Judith coming back alone'… Couch ignored the bet just like he's ignoring Judith… good for Chester for not mentioning that, either...._

"Since this ring looks large, round, and very secure to me," Chester continued, "Donna's the winner."

He went to his desk drawer and pulled out a short stack of bills. While Loudoun counted the money, Judith shook her head in disbelief at her co-workers.

You spent your weekend betting on engagement rings?" she demanded.

"Well," John drawled in reply, "we weren't whisked off to Chicago for box seats at Wrigley Field followed by an expensive romantic dinner with a proposal for dessert."

Judith's derisive chuckle put him in his place.

"More like bleacher seats and dinner at the local diner. Joe wanted to recreate his father's proposal to his mother."

John opened his mouth, but Otten did not give him time to speak.

"Before you start laughing," she told him, "yes, it was romantic and no, I'm not telling you about it."

John snapped his jaw shut with an audible click. He glared at Otten for a moment then turned on his heel and headed for his desk. Olivia was about to go over and twit him for giving up so easily when a familiar shape in the hall caught her eye.

_Why is Cragen watching us from out there? Does he have a problem with us getting along? Shit—he just spotted me looking at him…._

She turned away and began to fuss over her mug. Behind her, all conversation fell silent.

_That sudden quiet signals the arrival of our CO… footsteps crossing the linoleum… his office door opening and closing… a pause… conversation starts again…. I wonder if he even bothered to notice us…._

Loudoun slid into her chair, and stared at her partner until the pressure of her gaze made John look up.

"How certain," she asked, "are you about the captain's promotion?"

John glanced over at the closed blinds of Cragen's office before answering.

"Rumor has it as a sure thing," he said in a low voice. "Of course, there is many a slip twixt the lip and the cup."

"You mean he could still blow it?"

He peered at her over his dark lenses.

"At any given moment, any one of us can 'blow it.' Turn a corner and run into the Chief of Ds, soaking him with your favorite caffeinated beverage. Fall asleep in your patrol car and get caught by the watch commander, or leave your weapon loaded in a desk drawer where some skel can find it. All you need is the wrong move at the wrong time and—"

John spread his fingers out as though they were flares in a fireworks explosion.

"_Poof_—there goes your job and pension."

Loudoun eyed his demonstration with detached amusement.

"So, you're saying…?"

He leaned over his keyboard and dropped his voice into a conspiratorial whisper.

"Cragen's a lock for promotion, but never bet on a sure thing."

With that wisdom imparted, John returned to the folder open before him. Loudoun left her chair and came around his desk to look over his shoulder.

"Did we get the ME's report already?"

"No," he replied. "This is a cold case I found when Otten and I were pulling together the Lewayne serial killer victims."

_Amy Choi, six years old, cause of death: strangulation… on December 28__th__, 1996, she and her older sister left her parents' dry cleaners to buy office supplies at a near-by five-and-dime… the sister said Amy 'went missing' at the store… early on December 30__th__, her body was found by the Department of Sanitation under a bus bench eight blocks from her home… Otten and I spread more than forty cases out on a table, and this one jumped out at me first… I had to cull her from the pile when we narrowed our selection…._

Loudoun evidently was reading over his shoulder, because she asked, "Anyone see this girl between the time she disappeared and when the trash guys found her?"

John flipped the page. "According to Detective Garchik's report, a bus driver saw a Chinese girl crossing Avenue A about one hour after her sister lost track of her. She was with a man of unknown ethnicity, medium height and build, wearing a gray parka with its hood up."

He tapped a paragraph of the report with his index finger.

"When she disappeared, and when she was found, Amy Choi was wearing a blue wool winter coat, a hand-me-down from a cousin. The girl the bus driver reported seeing had on a pink parka with white fur on its hood. That difference was enough to keep Garchik from pursuing the lead."

John held his finger on that paragraph.

"So you think he missed something important?" Donna asked.

"Could be," he replied. "We know a lot more about how pedophiles operate than we did back then. They groom their prey: talk to them, spend time with them, give them gifts—whatever it takes to earn their victims' trust. Amy's killer might have been a customer of her parents or someone living in their building, a person who would spend a few moments in friendly chit-chat with her whenever they crossed paths. Back then, parents weren't hyper-vigilant about strangers getting close to their kids."

Donna glanced at John then she put her attention back to the case documents. Her eyebrows knit together, and the tip of her tongue appeared between her lips.

_Looks like you're thinking… let's see if you've picked up anything in your ten days with us…._

"With enough chit-chat," she finally said, "a pedophile could learn everything about this girl—what she likes and dislikes, her favorite color, her biggest wishes. Kids don't guard their words the way grown-ups do."

John nodded. "Especially if she was in a secure environment like her parents' business. There's no mention here of Amy's favorite color or if she hated hand-me-downs."

_I know I did... nothing like wearing your older cousins' clothing—and having said cousins rub your nose in that fact...._

John flipped to another page of the report.

"According to Mr. Choi, none of their customers stopped coming after Amy's death. Maybe her killer got his dry cleaning done elsewhere, or he got off on seeing her parents grieve. Some perverts enjoy that."

"Hey, Donna," Judith called from the fax machine, "looks like something coming in for you."

Without another word, Loudoun left John for the fax machine.

_It's either the preliminary report from Warner—hope it includes the victim's ID—or it's the fire accelerant report from Trout… either one means I have to get to work…._

He took another glance at the two full-face photos of Amy Choi in her case folder.

_School picture… long black hair in pony tails, big smile for the camera… one tooth missing and another looks loose… cheerful kid… when you're six, the world seems so bright and wonderful…._

The second photo, taken by CSU at the crime scene, showed the thumb-sized bruises on either side of her face. Her eyes, open but lifeless, seemed to stare at something beyond John's left shoulder.

_I have a perfectly good arson-murder to investigate… I have other cases to close… I don't need to throw an eleven-year-old cold case into the mix… but that smile, that snaggle-toothed smile… and those bright, happy eyes…._

He closed the folder and slid it into the center drawer of his desk.

_Loudoun's on her way back with that fax… I'll put this back in its file cabinet later…._

Cragen had no sooner shut his office door when Stabler's desk phone rang. He sprinted across the squadroom and caught it on the second ring.

"SVU, Detective Stabler."

All Olivia could tell from his expression was that the caller was dumping something unwanted on her partner. She walked to his desk in time to hear him say, "No, it shouldn't be a problem. Let me clear it with our CO, and we'll be right over."

Elliot replaced the receiver in its cradle before glancing at the other four detectives at their desks.

"The DA wants us in his office," he told her. "Something about fixing a case botched by one of their investigators."

"When?"

Elliot reached out to turn off his computer monitor.

"Now. You want to tell Cragen? He hates you less than he hates me."

She gave him a "Thanks, partner" frown.

"Not especially, but since it's you asking."

A rap on the closed office door got her a "Come in" from the captain. Once inside, Cragen listened to her news without raising his eyes from the spreadsheet before him. Only a "Make sure your rapes get priority" approved her request.

Olivia stared at the top of his head for a moment before she left.

_If you're not going to even pretend you care, why bother coming in?_

9100 block of Parsons Avenue  
Queens, NY  
26 July

Jamaica Center Metro Station served, among other establishments, CUNY's York College.

_And I'm punching out the next pimply-faced clerk-slash-student who disses me… they think working McDonald's on a Monday morning is rough? They should try pounding the pavement with a grainy photo of drunk B&Ters and another of a comatose woman… I'll handle the fry station while they walk for blocks trying to ID these people…._

Fin was working one side of Parsons, Couch the other. They ran a set pattern starting at the metro station in the hope that someone in the area would recognize any one of the people in the two photos.

_Our victim's fingerprints aren't on-file and no one's filed a missing persons report… if we can't ID her this way, we'll try the college—see if they have any females matching her description who missed class today…._

Finally, Fin hit pay dirt in a convenience store sandwiched between a hair braiding shop and a nail salon. The clerk, a young white man with sloppy dread-locks and a gray Che Guevara t-shirt, glanced at Fin's photos while working the queue of students buying breakfast burritos and sodas.

"Don't know the woman, but yeah, I know that dude," the clerk told him. "That one, too. You need their names?"

"Why am I showing you this photo if I don't want their names?"

The question proved too esoteric for the clerk. He blinked at Fin for a moment, then said, "Shit, man—I don't know. The tall one's Eddie Bowers and the one on his right is Tom Durham. They were here Friday around 4 a.m."

"You working?"

"Yeah. Sanjay didn't show for his shift."

"What they buy?"

The clerk threw his hands out as though hugging the contents of the counter before him.

"You really expect me to remember?"

Fin put a forearm on the counter and scowled at the clerk.

"Yeah, I do."

The clerk backed away so fast, his locks wobbled in the slipstream of his movement.

"Uh… I think it was an Ace bandage, a bottle of Advil, and a twelve-pack of Natural Light. Tom was holding his right arm like it hurt."

Fin's scowl deepened.

_So Dunham hurt himself slamming his date around… tough shit…._

"You got security footage of them being here?" he asked the clerk.

"Should. You need to see it?"

After promising a receipt of the tape itself, Fin called Couch and gave him the two names.

"You get back to the car and run those names, see if addresses or warrants pop up. I'm going get the surveillance tapes from here."

There was a long silence from the younger detective.

_Sofarelli's probably counting the days until I can't give him orders any more…._

'I'm on it," Couch finally said. "Meet you at the car?"

"Yeah."

Fin pocketed his phone.

_I got names… soon, addresses… way things look, we might make an arrest before we ID our victim…._

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
26 July

"You didn't bet on my engagement?"

Chester looked up from the phone usage report before him.

"I never bet on, for, or against my partner," he told her. "Just doesn't seem right."

Judith kept her eyes on the financial report Chester had handed her earlier.

"I won ten bucks from Cavanaugh thanks to your last fight."

A wistful smile brightened Chester's face while his hand dropped down to give his knee a reflexive rub.

"I didn't know Brooklyn South was following my career. Glad someone was."

Judith shrugged. "Brothers in blue and all that. You have any luck over the weekend finding Peter Ivanov?"

Chester shook his head.

"The only Peter Ivanov in the five boroughs is a retired accountant on Staten Island. His real estate empire consists of a three-bedroom house, and he has never heard of Banks or Felice Wholesale Meats. Add to that his LUDs for Friday; Banks didn't make any calls during the time he was with us at the warehouse."

He held up the sheet for her to read, dropping it back to his desk after Judith nodded.

"Since he lied to us, I'm all for trying to tie him to this," she said. "You?"

"Sounds good to me. Banks was shaking so bad when he came in Friday, they had to take each print twice. He's guilty—if not this, then something else."

Chester shifted a stack of paper from the corner of his desk to before him.

"I'll go through his personal accounts if you stick with his business ones. Maybe one of us will find a kibble receipt for those trained pooches."

They spent the next twenty minutes reading through check registers, credit cards statements, company balance sheets and profit/loss statements, and other financial reports.

"Blimps."

Chester's unexpected utterance brought Judith's head up.

"Huh?"

"Blimps. We inflate one on the roof and let it take us east with the prevailing winds. Soon as we're out of Manhattan, we deflate it slowly and land."

She set down the P&L statement she had been reading and considered the idea.

"Y'know, that one might work. You plan to buy a blimp or build one?"

"I don't know yet," Chester replied, his eyes back on his reading. "Let me think about it."

Office of District Attorney Arthur Branch  
One Hogan Place  
26 July

Arthur Branch, complete with American flag pinned to his label, sat behind his expansive desk. The detectives were in comfortable side chairs facing him, Elliot on Olivia's left.

_This is so much nicer than my desk chair. Wonder if Branch would notice if I took it back to the house with me?_

First thing on the agenda was Branch admitting he lied to them.

"I had Sarah feed you that story to get you over here," Branch announced. "The topic of this meeting is confidential. It stays between the two of you, Jack McCoy, and me."

Neither partner glanced away from the DA. Surprises were normal; secretive cases from the DA's offices were not.

"A year ago—May 14th to be precise, Marc Newman, an ADA with our Homicide Investigation Unit, was found hanged in his apartment in Queens. This happened the day after he was selected to finish out Frank Grotke's term in the state assembly."

Branch paused as though waiting for questions. The obvious one popped into Olivia's head.

_If there's a sex crime involved, why wasn't this Queen's SVU to start with?_

As though to answer her unspoken question, Branch explained that detectives from the 100th Precinct had found nothing odd or prurient in Newman's home.

"Was Newman's death ruled a suicide?" Elliot asked.

"It was. Marc had broken up with his long-time girlfriend two weeks before. People who worked with him said the break-up hit him hard. Even though he'd just gotten a huge boost to his career from the governor, it seems enough to explain his actions."

Branch's doughy face sagged as he continued his story.

"Recently, a rumor surfaced that Andrew Beale was involved in Newman's death."

Olivia's professional demeanor broke. She stared gape-mouthed at Arthur Branch. Next to her, Elliot displayed identical amazement.

"Beale?" he blurted at the DA. "You think he staged a suicide?"

Branch snorted at the thought of the pudgy bureau chief performing so much physical exertion.

"No, Newman tied the knot and kicked the stool away by himself; we're certain of that. However, there's been word that Andrew wanted something from him, something Newman couldn't live with. Maybe it pertained to his appointment to the assembly. Andrew has a habit of helping his favorites advance professionally. I know of three other reports who, thanks to Andrew's help, went on to bigger and better things "

Olivia coughed once to recover her voice.

"Is there anything to point to the bureau chief harassing or soliciting his employees?"

Branch shook his head as he replied, "No, not a thing."

"Did Bureau Chief Beale recommend Newman to the governor?"

Branch's scowl held a tinge of embarrassment.

"The governor and I don't hunt behind the same hounds so he wouldn't share his reasons for that appointment with me. I did learn from mutual friends that Andrew mentioned Newman to him on several occasions."

Olivia caught Elliot's glance in her direction.

_You're right… what the fuck?_

Elliot straightened in his chair.

"With all due respect," he said, "I'll grant it's possible that a sexual predator could somehow slip through the screening I'm sure you have in place, but not Beale and not in Sex Crimes. He'd have to fool SVU detectives, the shrinks who work with the victims and perps, and his own ADAs. Sorry, sir, but I just don't see it."

Branch's gaze as Elliot spoke, sliding from the detective's face to where his own hands rested on the desk before him. To Olivia, he looked ready to vomit.

_I don't blame him… Elliot's right—we're talking Beale… yes, he's officious but, after Operation Chestnut, he's one of us… Branch has to know that…._

"Sir," she asked, "do you really think Bureau Chief Beale solicited sexual favors from four men in exchange for getting them promoted?"

Branch's gaze snapped to meet hers as though angered by the blunt question.

"If I believed that, Detective, I'd already have arrested the son of a bitch. Instead, I have a vile rumor that could ruin the life of a good man. Investigating this will require every bit of your expertise and your finesse."

Elliot bristled, taking the comment as a slam. Olivia conceded his point.

_It does need a light touch… we're being asked to clear Beale—and keep from spreading the rumor further while we work it...._

"Sir," she replied, "it's no problem to look at Newman's suicide again, and to prove no undue influence was used on the other three men. Will that do?"

Branch nodded. "That should do."

He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a sealed manila envelope, which he handed to Stabler.

"The three names I mentioned are in there. I've approved the disclosure of all their financials and phone records, as well as Newman's and Andrew's. If you find anything to substantiate this rumor, or if you can disprove it, let me know immediately. If you can't reach me, contact Jack McCoy, but do not mention this to anyone else. This has to stay confidential. I'm not risking anyone's hide unless I'm certain he deserves heating the tar and feathers."

Their dismissal, once they had agreed to Branch's instructions, was abrupt and hurried.

_It's like Branch wants to distance himself from us and this as fast as possible…._

Both Olivia and Elliot kept their thoughts to themselves until they were back in their car. Once the engine was running and the A/C had kicked in, Elliot broke the silence.

"What the hell?" he blurted, his hand striking the steering wheel to punctuate his question. "We're talking Beale—the guy who held off Chief Sullivan and his goons so Fin, Tucker, and I could question Sergeant Wilkerson. He helped get Sullivan on tape for the commissioner and backed Cap's play all the way. I can't see it, Liv—I can't."

She sighed in agreement.

_I can't, either…._

"Someone must be trying to stir up trouble for him. Has to be. Otherwise, then he's only helping Cragen to—"

Elliot went pale then he twisted in his seat to face her.

"That, all by itself, is enough to prove this false," he said. "Cragen would never fall for a predator. That would be like you or me or Fin or Munch…."

A wave of her hand ended his listing of fellow detectives.

"Okay," she said, "I get your point. Overwhelmed by brute force, or maybe by a sneak attack, but never by a stalker."

Elliot's emphatic nod supported her statement.

"Exactly. We know the signs."

"So, we work the assignment, clear Beale, and move on to real cases."

"Works for me. Feel like pizza for lunch?"


	6. Making the Bosses Happy

Interstate 87 near Ravena, NY  
29 July (Thursday)

The dark blue Taurus traveled south at a steady seventy-five miles per hour thanks to its working cruise control. Its non-working AC forced Elliot to lower his window then drop the rear windows to their limit. The air rushing through the windows cooled both him and Olivia, but it also ruffled the pages of the notepad on her lap. She finally gave up and slid it back into her pocket.

"That," she said, referring to the interview just completed, "was a big fat nothing."

"Schmidt, Blais, Stephanos," he replied. "All three seem straight up to me. Anything tingling your intuition?"

Olivia stared out the window at the woods blurring past her. Instead of summer greenery, she saw again Keith Schmidt's office.

_Twice the size of his last one… more modern, too… same with the office Stephanos has—both bigger and nicer than their spots at One Hogan Place… makes sense, given their new, more important jobs… we sat in Keith's office, shot the breeze for a few minutes—status of current cases, remembering past cases… then Keith told us how he had had dinner the night before with the COO of Kepler Industries, the biggest employer in the Finger Lake region… we were suitably impressed… finally, Keith asked why we'd driven up from the city…._

Elliot had answered his question using the cover story Branch had given them.

"We've been farmed out to the DA's office to check out recent departures from his staff—see that everything was on the up-and-up. Branch wants to make sure everything is kosher before he announces his next run for office."

Schmidt nodded at the cautious wisdom behind Branch's actions.

"But, why pick you guys for this?" he asked.

Elliot glanced over at Olivia, who, as arranged beforehand, responded with an embarrassed frown.

"Annual psych review said we needed some time away from SVU," she told him. "Six weeks before we can get back to real police work."

Keith rolled his eyes at that bureaucratic stupidity.

"Man, that has to suck," he said. "Well, what do you need to know?"

Elliot then ran through their list of questions.

_Did you pay any bribes or grant any favors to get this position? Did anyone ask you to pay a bribe or do a favor before or after you got this position? Did anyone use undue influence to get you this position? Did anyone acting as sponsor or mentor to you behave in a way that was or may have seemed to you or others to be abusive, harassing, or demeaning? _

Keith had answered in the negative to each and every question. Nothing in his demeanor or voice indicated lying or shading of the truth. When Olivia asked if who, if any one, had assisted him to prep for his new job, Keith had named Andrew Beale with no sign of uneasiness or fear in his expression, voice, or posture.

"Andrew dropped my name around here," he told them. "He also coached me—things like how I should be reading the business journals and dressing like a manager instead of an ADA. Cost me a fortune to follow his advice, but it certainly paid off."

He indicated the red silk tie he was wearing and the expensive tailored suit jacket hanging on a wooden hanger behind the office's door.

"Without his help, I'd still be trying perverts and arguing the efficacy of drug possession arrests with Munch. Must say, I really like this better."

After a few more generic questions, Elliot stood up and held out his right hand.

"That's it, Keith. I'm glad to see you doing so well. We'll get out of your hair now."

"Hey, I'm glad I got to see you guys," he replied, first shaking Elliot's hand, then Olivia's. "You tell Casey to keep nailing those pervs."

Olivia shook her head, as much at Keith's poor choice of words as to answer Elliot's question about her intuitions.

"As far as I can tell, Keith is telling us the truth—Beale really is a warm, caring guy."

Elliot tapped the brakes, easing off the cruise control to allow a box truck to merge from the Ravena on-ramp.

"You get a chance to look over their financials?"

Olivia nodded.

_Don't ask me to read from them… if I get them out right now, they'll blow all over the place… damn the mechanic who didn't fix the AC… or the detective who didn't bother to report it broken…._

"All four sets look good," she said, "no unexplained large cash amounts going in or out, no unusually high credit card balances, nothing weird at all."

"What about the several thousand each of them spent before they got the jobs?" he asked. "Do we need to worry about that?"

Olivia hid a smile.

_You're clueless, Elliot—either that or born to wear a uniform… _

"Men's clothiers, Elliot. You hear Keith say how Beale had him upgrade his wardrobe before his interviews. Blais also mentioned it when we called him."

"Oh."

His monosyllable brought a broader smile to her lips.

_You could try some designer clothes, a haircut from someone not Marine-trained…._

"If I'm not mistaken," she said, "Keith also got some highlights and had his eyebrows shaped."

The grunt of disgust from her partner made the comment worthwhile.

"The day my job requires hair removal," he told her, "I'll do it myself."

"With a gas hedge trimmer, right?"

"Maybe a machete."

Ellliot took a hand from the wheel, and mimed whacking at his forehead with a big blade.

"If I'm doing metrosexual, I'm doing it manly and masculine. No tweezers for this stud."

Her smile matched his grin.

"I can see it now," she told him, "Elliot Stabler in a suit costing more than two hundred bucks, hair streaked blond and spiked, all man-scaped and smelling expensive…."

His laugh cut off her recitation.

"What, my birthday aftershave doesn't do it for you?"

Olivia pretended to take a deep whiff.

_He smells like cedar and tobacco… now, Dave smells more like lime and spices… I don't know enough about men's colognes to tell what either is… but Dave smells good and Elliot smells like an old man's apartment…._

"So, what do you think?" Elliot asked.

_I think saying you smell like an old man's apartment is a horrible idea…._

"Not bad," she replied. "You like it?"

He shrugged. "After the first few minutes, I can't tell it's there. So, Keith got himself spiffed up because of Beale's advice. You think Cragen did the same thing?"

"What? Got himself waxed?"

Elliot gulped.

"Hell, no. You think Beale told him, 'Stop looking like a underpaid flatfoot if you want to be promoted?'"

Olivia considered her answer.

"Either Beale or that new girlfriend John mentioned. Maybe she's spiffing him up."

Elliot's eyebrows shot up so fast, she thought she heard them hit his forehead.

"Cap has a girlfriend?"

"Yeah. Munch found out about her last week. She's Councilman Baker's aide and Deputy Commissioner Balzano's sister."

Elliot stared at her for so long that Olivia finally pointed at the windshield.

_Look at the road before you get us killed…._

"You gotta be kidding," he told her as he turned his attention back to driving. "That sounds more like a death wish than a relationship."

When Elliot said nothing further, Olivia assumed the topic had played itself out. She nestled against her seat to watch the scenery, and let her mind wander.

_I wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall when the deputy commissioner gets introduced to his sister's new beau… at least, Cragen will look good when he dies… if his wife was choosing his clothes, she didn't have much fashion sense—I mean, suspenders? Maybe this new woman suggested a real tailor… he obviously paid some serious money for what he's wearing now… it has to be a woman—Beale dresses well, but I can't see Cragen letting him pick out fabrics and colors and arrange his fittings… which pretty much puts the lie to Branch's rumor about Beale… part of a predator's grooming is to buy their targets gifts... it's true for pedophiles… stalkers like sending their female victims flowers and jewelry—it makes the false tie between them seem real… but would that hold true for male predators after straight male victims?_

"Elliot?"

"Hmm?"

"We know pedophiles buy toys for the kids they're grooming, and stalkers send gifts and love letters to the women they're after. Does it make sense for a predator after a man to do the same?"

Her partner considered the matter before shaking his head.

"Gift-giving among guys? Wouldn't work. I mean, we might bring a six-pack over if we're watching the game together, but the sort of gifts that attract children and women? Never happen."

She sat up to face him.

_Stabler, you going all Neanderthal on me?_

"Don't tell me you don't appreciate a nice gift now and then."

The puzzled stare Elliot gave her told how foreign the concept was to him.

"It's like that aftershave from my kids. It's special because they gave it to me. Gifts from people other than family don't make me feel loved or important. If a friend of mine started buying me stuff, I'd start wondering about him."

"Okay. So, if a predator were after you, he wouldn't entice you with presents."

An emphatic head shake from Elliot answered her.

"Not unless he was trying to look hinky."

"So, what would seduce you—say, if a predator decided to target you?"

Elliot's only reaction was to squirm a bit and shoot a sideways glare at her.

"Maybe," he said, "you should try the radio—find some music or something."

She tipped her head to give him her best "humor me" smile.

"C'mon, El. You're too experienced to be groomed like a child or seduced like a lover. What would make you trust a predator?"

His gaze darted about the dashboard as though looking for a reply.

"Probably the same things that would make me think he was my friend. Follows my sports teams, gives good advice, lets me borrow his tools—and returns mine without being asked… things like that."

Olivia pondered his answer.

_That makes sense… but it bothers him to think about it… probably just him being Elliot… despite all his time here, he's still a bit of a prude…._

"You want the radio on?" she asked.

"Sounds good to me."

_In other words, hell—yes…._

She fiddled with the search controls until she found an announcer promising Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Freebird."

_Call it a peace offering…._

Elliot's unease dissolved as soon as he recognized the opening chords.

"Now, that's driving music."

She sighed as he launched into the lyrics, his off-key baritone at odds with Ronnie Van Zandt's singing.

_My luck, this will be the album cut…._

When they reached I-84, Elliot took the exit and headed for east towards Goshen. The two detectives had arranged to meet with Marc Newman's mother, Holly Newman, at her home.

The Newmans lived on heavily wooded acreage northwest of town. Their house was a boxy wooden structure with narrow windows and a gabled roof. Metal scaffolding obscured the front, and tarps and white paint chips covered the foundation shrubbery.

Mrs. Newman, a woman in her late fifties, excused the mess with a sigh.

"As you can see, we're painting," she told them. "Bill decided it was finally time to take it down to bare wood and replace the rotten lapboards."

Elliot's wry smile told her that he understood.

"Houses are money pits," he said. "If it's not the paint, it's the plumbing."

Mrs. Newman led them through the house and out to a shaded wooden deck that overlooked the woods behind the house.

_Lots of shade, hardly any grass… teak furniture… planters filled with frillly purple flowers… I can hear cicadas in the trees… we have them in the parks, too… they always sound like summer to me…. _

"I hope you don't mind talking out here," Mrs. Newman said. "I've been in the kitchen all day, and I need a change of scenery. Can I get you anything? Iced tea? Coffee?"

Both detectives accepted her offer of tea. Once the glasses had been filled, and they had seated themselves around the teak garden table, Olivia began the interview while Elliot took notes.

"As I told you over the phone, we're checking the circumstances that led to your son being named to the state assembly. The Manhattan DA's office wants to make sure no undue influence was used by Marc or anyone representing him to obtain that position for him. Everyone who left to take government positions during the DA's term is being checked. It's purely routine."

Mrs. Newman nodded to show she understood then Olivia ran through the same questions that Elliot had asked Schmidt.

"No, Marc didn't say anything about anything like that," Mrs. Newman told them. "I thought he got the nod because of his work with the Young Democrats. He chaired their national conference in 2005, and he ran Assemblywoman Storo's campaign last year."

"Did he mentioned any individuals who might also have helped him catch the governor's attention?"

"Marc said his boss at HUI tried to give him advice, but he only listened to humor him. After all, if the appointment didn't come through, Marc still had to work for the man."

"Do you know this man's name?"

Mrs. Newman looked puzzled.

"I know I met him at the funeral, but that day is just a blur. Marc always refer to him as 'The Dumpling.'"

Elliot caught Olivia's gaze.

_Yep, sounds like Andrew Beale to me, too…._

Olivia took a big sip of tea before asked her next question.

"Mrs. Newman, we know about the circumstances of your son's death, so I have to ask this question. Do you have any reason to believe the governor's appointment or the situation leading up to it may have been a factor in your son's suicide?"

The woman's gaze slipped from its focus on Olivia's face to stare at the deck at her feet. Her lips begin to tremble. Olivia was about to reach out and lay a hand on her shoulder, assure her that she did not have to answer, when Mrs. Newman cleared her throat and spoke.

"My apologies," she said. "It still sometimes gets to me. I don't see how it could have. Being named to finish Frank Grotke's term was a big step up for Marc. The weekend before, he was here talking about all the things he wanted to accomplish in Albany. He actually stopped moping over Jenny breaking their engagement."

"Did that hit him hard?"

"Oh, yes. They'd been seeing each other since their sophomore year. When Jenny told him she'd taken a job in Dallas and gave him back his ring, Marc was just devastated. Bill and I were furious—I'm still not talking to her mother. That woman had to nerve to say it was for the best—like my Marc wasn't good enough for her precious daughter."

Olivia was about to wrap things up when Elliot leaned forward and cleared his throat.

"Mrs. Newman, did Marc call you when he got word of his appointment?"

She blinked as she thought back to that day the year previous.

"No, I don't think he did. I know I just heard about it on the TV when I called Bill at work. He called Marc to congratulate him, but he had to leave a message. We figured Marc was busy with reporters. We both thought he'd call as soon as he got a chance."

Her eyes moistened as she remembered.

"Instead, Tom Michaels—he's the police chief here—he came by the next morning with the news. I guess, after all the fuss calmed down, Marc started thinking about how he didn't have Jenny to share his achievement with him and he… he…."

She twisted in her chair, away from their gazes, and gulped twice.

"It's okay, Mrs. Newman," Olivia assured her. "I'm sorry we had to remind you of this."

While the woman composed herself, Olivia glared at her partner.

_Why ask her that? We're not investigating his suicide—we're trying to clear Beale…._

Elliot's steady gaze gave her no answers. After they were back on the road leading to the Thruway, she asked about the question.

"It's simple," Elliot told her. "Mrs. Newman said that Marc was excited about the appointment, but that was several days before. She doesn't know what he was thinking when he got the news."

"You think that's important?"

"Don't know," he replied. "To be sure, we probably need to talk to someone who talked to Marc that day."

"Who?"

Olivia put enough force behind her question to startle her partner.

"We can't ask Beale," she reminded him. "We can't ask Newman's coworkers at HUI in case it gets back to Beale. Whom do you suggest we talk to?"

The half-smile that curved his smile made her want to smack him.

_Damn it, Elliot—we're almost done with this… why complicate things?_

"Jerry Wilks," he told her, "covers the state house for the Ledger. Our kids play on the same soccer team. How about I call him? I can give him our cover story, and find out who interviewed Newman about the appointment and whether he was happy about it or not."

Olivia threw out both hands in a "What the hell for?" shrug.

"Because it's a loose end," he replied, "and we can't have any if we want to clear Beale for Branch. If you want, I'll handle it myself this evening after practice."

_Damn right I want… I'm supposed to meet Dave at seven and we're barely going to get back in time as it is…._

"Works for me," she said. "You check that out then we'll wrap this up in a pretty package for the DA, and get back to real cases."

Elliot tapped the radio's 'On' button.

"How about you find some more driving music? You seem to have a knack for it."

Office of Dr. Elizabeth Olivet  
Manhattan, NY  
29 July

Elizabeth Olivet looked older than Cragen remembered.

_Of course, the last time I saw her, I still had hair…._

She also had redecorated her office. It now looked European to him: functional furniture and angular abstract paintings, its utility softened by large vases of fresh flowers.

Olivet sat in a low-backed cream leather chair, leaving him the sofa. The coffee table between them held a shallow glass bowl filled with puffy yellow flowers and a legal pad in a leather case. Olivet picked up the pad, and jotted the date and time in it before smiling at him.

"Shall we begin?"

The session was easier than he had feared. Olivet's gentle manner, designed to put gruff police officers and surly perpetrators at ease, combined with her soft voice, made the evaluation feel more like a conversation than a weighing of his fitness for duty. Don told her about faking sex with his detective for Operation Chestnut, the fight with Greg Lau in the warehouse, the confrontation with Chief Sullivan, the investigation into the charges against his unit, and the result of that investigation. While he talked, he felt her gaze on him as she noted the tone of his voice, the way his hands and face reacted to the story he was telling, and the rate of his breathing.

_Judging my reactions and checking to see if they're appropriate or if I'm holding anything back… if she only knew the half of it…._

He ended the telling with his realization that he was ignoring his unit and his people to concentration on promotion. His relationship with Tullia and her help with his speeches got prominent mention, but he mentioned Beale only in passing.

_I rehearsed this all week… even ran through it with a tape recorder so I could hear myself tell it… if I sound rehearsed, she'll wonder what's up…._

When Olivet asked questions, he kept his goal in mind as he answered them.

_I can't have her even think the word 'paranoid' … if she puts it in her report, Branch will discredit everything I told him about Beale and he won't bother to check him out… I can't let that happen… I know the PTSD symptoms… I have to concentrate on displaying the ones that make me look good with Branch—withdrawal, avoidance, irritability… I'm really going out on a limb here…. _

Finally, Olivet closed her pen and her pad, and set them on the table.

"Well, Don, I think that covers it. Do you have any questions?"

He smiled back at her.

_But don't look too relieved… I'm not out of the woods yet…._

"Did I pass?"

Her low chuckle showed he had hit the right note.

"Well, Don, you're obviously under stress—with your job, that goes without saying. The hurt and betrayal you felt at Chief Sullivan's treatment of you, and the way the department handled the charges against your unit caused you to withdraw emotionally from those around you. It's a normal reaction, especially for men. Given than most males have difficulty talking about their feelings, often they choose to cope with strong emotional upheaval with a period of inward reflection."

"You mean 'holing up in my office and ignoring my people?'"

"Exactly. However, you've now realized what you were doing. I'm sure there won't be any lasting effects. Some awkwardness, perhaps—you never struck me as the sort who likes saying 'I'm sorry.'"

He grimaced at the thought.

_Not looking forward to that at all… and I really need to figure out how to handle it…._

"As to you making a try at promotion," Olivet continued, "there's nothing odd about that. Perhaps Chief Sullivan's actions made it clear you should depend on your own resources, and not wait for someone to give you a boost."

Don sighed before he could think to stop himself.

_I didn't do anything until Beale talked me into it… manipulated me in it... you're giving me more credit than I deserve…._

The quizzical expression on Olivet's face warned him that she had noticed his sigh.

_Time to look annoyed…._

"You saying I've spent my career waiting to be rescued?"

The psychiatrist winced.

"Not exactly. More like you realized that you had the perfect opportunity to get yourself noticed, and you took advantage of it."

She indicated his clothing with a wave of her hand.

"You've upgraded your image. You began networking. You set yourself and your accomplishments out where your superiors could see your value. From what I can tell, it's paying off."

_Okay... I can agree with that one.…_

He shifted to a sheepish smile, one he hoped looked apologetic.

"Sorry, doc. I misunderstood you. You're right about the efforts. I do hope they pay off."

"If anyone deserves it, it's you, Don."

He took that bit of wisdom with him when he left her office. Since the appointment was work-related, Charlie was waiting for him by his assigned car.

_Wow… he snagged a parking space on this block… probably spent the last hour circling until one opened up…._

Cragen opened the front passenger door. The sounds of the play-by-play for the Mets game was coming from the radio. Charlie turned it down then leaned over to look up at Cragen.

"Back to the house?"

"Yes," Don replied as he got into the car, "and I think that's going to be it for today. I've got enough paper work on my desk to keep me there until Monday."

Charlie grinned as he turned up the radio and started the car.

"Suits me—not your paperwork, but I'm supposed to answer phones for Delgado while he goes to the doctor."

Cragen was about to ask after Delgado's health when his cell rang. He checked the caller ID.

_Beale… okay, deep breath… remember, he's my friend…._

"Cragen."

"_Don, did you see NY8 News' report of your talk this morning? Cyndy Sierens devoted her entire New York Newsworthy segment to you."_

Don cringed at the sound of the TV reporter's name.

_That "Pets aren't trash" protest outside the One-Six was all her doing…._

"Did Sierens mention trash bags?"

Andrew made what sounded to Don like mother hen clucks.

"_That case was so many new cycles ago, Cyndy probably doesn't remember. No, she showed footage of you telling how Uncle Ernie was enticing Jacob—great cultural reference, by the way—then it cut to her interviewing parents in the lobby afterwards. The ones she picked were shocked that their darlings were more in danger from friends and relatives than strangers. You really drove that point home."_

Don swallowed hard to clear the bile from his throat.

_The danger from 'friends'… don't remind me…._

"Good," Don replied. "That's what I was aiming for. If parents spot the signs early, my job becomes easier."

"_You mean your successor's job, Don. You're heading for bigger and better things. Now, the word I'm hearing is that your bosses and mine really appreciate the media attention. It wouldn't hurt for you to wander into One P.P. today and show your face—give them a chance to tell you in person."_

Don checked his watch.

"It will have to be tomorrow. I've got a shift meeting at four o'clock I can't miss."

_It's the first one I've been at all week… shame on me for ducking everyone while I figure out what I'm doing…._

Beale's grunt sounded disappointed.

"_How about I meet you for breakfast at nine tomorrow, after you make the rounds? We can discuss what we need to do to keep you at the top of everyone's short list until the list comes out."_

"Sounds good. The Everest?"

Beale chuckled.

"_You read my mind. See you tomorrow."_

Don glanced over at Charlie after he put his phone away. The driver was engrossed in the ball game and the traffic around him so Don leaned back to think.

_Seventeen more days until the promotion list comes out… Olivet said she'd probably have her report to Branch by Tuesday… she bought my story about the DA ordering the report… I guess I lie better than I thought… I wonder if Branch is checking Beale out already or if he's waiting to find out if I'm nuts or not…._

The ease with which he finessed that matter with Olivet still amazed Don.

_Now that's over, I can stop worrying about getting forced out… and I get to figure out how to protect myself… how to keep Beale from doing what I think he's going to do…._

As always, when he got to this point, he mentally shied away from the next step in the thought process.

_Don't go there—not yet… it's hard enough being near Beale without picturing how I think he wants this to end… I've seen it far too often third-person… I don't need the guided tour… think of something else… do something else…._

"What's the score," he asked Charlie.

"Five to one, Pirates, bottom of the sixth. Pittsburgh scored all five of those runs in the fifth."

Cragen winced. "Ouch. Doesn't sound good."

"It ain't. It ain't good at all."

_Amen, Charlie… it ain't good at all…._

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
29 July

Cragen leaned against his door frame and watched everyone find their places for the shift meeting. Olivia, Howie, and Sue were by Elliot's desk, the two of them chatting together. The rest of Howie's shift were making their ways toward him from the coffee pot, where they had been fortifying themselves for the shift to come.

Munch was in his chair with Loudoun standing next to him. Next to their desks, the glass wall displayed crime scene diagrams and a computer-generated image of the victim bound spread-eagle on her sofa bed. Munch had decided the actual crime scene photos were too graphic for display, his excuse being that they would freak out any civilians who came through the squadroom.

_They've been working this case for four days and, judging from their matching frowns, I'm not going to like their update… damn… I told John to kick it back to the precinct… my fault for not following up with him…._

Otten and Lake were standing outside Interview One with their attentions more on the inside of the room than on the people around them.

_Maybe they brought in a suspect in their animal porn case…. _

Tutuola and Sofarelli were the last two to arrive. Fin came past the holding tank and stopped by his desk while Couch rushed in from the hall. When he walked past his partner, Fin did not budge or say a word.

Couch ignored his partner's lack of reaction. He came to a halt by Howie just as the redhead began the meeting.

The major updates came from Benson's shift.

"We've got David Banks in Interview Two," Otten told the assembled detectives. "He is claiming he was approached by a Russian who demanded the use of his vacant buildings for porn shoots. According to him, the man threatened bodily harm to Banks and his family if he didn't comply."

Lake picked up the story.

"However, the Russian's name and description keep changing so Banks has nothing to support his story. Novak wants us to wait for her before we crank it up a notch or two."

"Commendable," Cragen told them. "I admire your restraint. Let me know when Casey arrives."

Judith's expression went blank. Chester glanced at her before nodding to acknowledge Cragen's words.

_It's a compliment, people—nothing more… no underlying meaning, no hidden agenda… are things so bad that no one trusts a compliment from me?_

Not wishing to consider that possibility, the captain turned to Munch and Loudoun.

"John, how's your arson-murder going?"

Munch straightened in his chair, squaring his shoulders as though bracing himself to face a firing squad.

"We're kicking it over to Homicide. Turns out it's not a sex crime."

Brewster pointed at the image of the spread-eagled victim, and voiced the question on Cragen's lips.

"Looks like a sex crime to me. What changed?"

"Evidence, the lifeblood of any investigation," John replied. "Warner says the victim died from her burns, but she also had a skull fracture that probably rendered her unconscious before being trussed up. Warner also found no fluids and, when she compared DNA from the body to DNA taken from follicles from a hair pick stored in Cynthia Williamson's locker at work, nothing matched."

While the assembled detectives murmured their amazement, Loudoun picked up the story.

"We recanvassed the neighbors and learned that Williamson was feuding with a coworker named Shareece Nichols. People they worked with said Williamson was jealous of Nichols because she had just leased an Escalade."

"No one has seen Nichols or the Escalade since the night of the fire," John added, "but someone has been using her credit cards. If Williamson killed her to steal her identity and overly ostentatious new ride, then this isn't a sex crime so we handed it off to Lt. Van Buren for reassignment."

"Who's working it now?" Cragen asked.

"Green and Cassady," Loudoun said as she switched off the glass wall. "We met with them earlier today, and gave them the case file and our notes."

Cragen raised his voice over the muttered cracks about 'Detective Beauty Queen.'

"John, Donna—thanks for taking the initiative and turning the case over to Homicide. I know they appreciate your help getting up to speed on it."

_Technically, they should have come to me first… except I wasn't here for that to happen…._

John peered at his CO over his lenses for an instant, just long enough for Cragen to see the distrust in his eyes.

_Both him and Judith… I got a lot of fences to mend here…._

He turned toward Fin then glanced at Couch to indicate it was their turn.

"How about your nightclub attack?"

Couch opened his mouth, but Fin answered first.

"I finally ID'd the vic. She's Angela Arellano. Soon as the M.E. verifies her DL photo against the body, I'll notify her folks."

Cragen clenched his jaw to hold in his surprise.

_Your vic died? I should have known that…._

"Any idea why Arellano's family didn't report her missing?" he asked them.

Couch started to answer. Fin spoke over him.

"Illegal is my guess. There's no record of them with DMV. I also got Tom Dunham's in Interrogation and his pal Eddie Bowers in Holding. Dunham's the one who gave us Arellano's name."

"Any idea which one is the doer?" Cragen asked.

This time, Couch beat Fin to the reply.

"According to them, neither of them, and they're both sticking to that story. However, Dunham's got an injured wrist. He says he jammed it playing touch football Sunday, but we have a video of him buying an Ace bandage and Advil early Sunday morning. I'm thinking he might have wrenched it while throwing Arellano around outside the club."

"When Casey is finished with Judith and Chester's suspect," Fin said, "she can decide who to offer a deal to. It won't hurt them to stew a while longer."

"Sounds good," Cragen told them. "Now, where's Stabler and Benson?"

"They took a run to Albany," Howie replied. "There's a cold case that may be warming up."

Cragen nodded.

_I've got to get back on top of things… I've let too many things slide…._

Since that was the last of the updates, Cragen ended the meeting then waved Fin and Couch into his office.

_If I have to start apologizing, I might as well start with them…._


	7. Attempting to Mend Fences: part one

A/N: There is some bad language in this chapter.

Office of D. Cragen  
29 July (Thursday)

Cragen waited for Fin and Couch to precede him into his office before closing the door. Couch came to a stop in front of the desk while Fin stood by the file cabinet nearest the door. The captain's murmured "Excuse me" when he brushed past Fin received no response.

_Arms folded, feet planted, facing me square-on… I've pissed off many subordinates over the years, but none of them looked as ready to attack me as Fin does right now…._

He then glanced at Sofarelli.

_Why does he look worried? I haven't done anything to either of them…._

Cragen took a position by his desk, midway between his detectives, then gave each man a long, steady look. Couch met his gaze warily. Fin glared back at him.

_An unfriendly audience… great… I'd better find out if it's me or something with them before I launch into an apology…._

"Things don't appear to be going well between you two," he told them. "Any thing you want to tell me?"

He waited for their reaction.

_Al wasn't expecting that—he glanced at Fin then locked his eyes back on me… he thinks the problem is with his partner, but won't say so… Fin kept his focus on me… judging from that scowl, it's a good thing we don't carry grenades… otherwise, I'd be finding a live one under my desk…._

The notion that Fin might frag him tightened Cragen's throat. He swallowed hard before addressing Couch.

"Al, why don't you see who Howie can spare for your notification? Come see me when you get back."

Couch's gaze slid right towards Fin, who continued to ignore him.

"Yes, sir," he replied. "It shouldn't take too long."

"Take as long as it needs, Detective. I'll be here."

Sofarelli left without another word.

_Running out of here like a man released from Death Row… almost wish I was going with him… this is going to be messy…._

As soon as the door swung shut, Cragen gestured to the chair nearest Fin.

"Fin, have a seat."

"I'd rather stand… sir."

Fin's steady glare and the bitterness in his voice kept Cragen on his own feet. He leaned against his desk and folded his hands on his upper leg.

"I get the idea you have something to say to me. I'm willing to listen."

Fin's lip twitched as he snorted in disbelief. When his silence stretched past five seconds, Cragen pressed the matter.

"Something not right between you and Al," he told Fin. "If you don't bring it out in the open, I can't help you with it."

"I got nothing to say."

_Yeah, right…_

"There won't be any repercussions," he assured his detective. "I give you my word—"

"Your word is crap."

Cragen jumped at the blunt statement, but Fin was not finished.

"You asking me to trust you?" he snarled at his captain. "That's fucked up. You the one threatened Otten and Munch with the rat squad. You the one screwed Stabler over, then lied to Liv about making her shift lead when you already guaranteed Sofarelli his stripes before he even took the exam. You the one dumped Lake and Loudoun in here never bothering to see if they making it okay or not. Damn unit's falling apart—us all hating on each other, cases messing with our heads, but you too busy playing butt-boy for Beale and that promotion you jonesin' for to give a shit."

Fin took a step closer. Cragen held his position, too stunned by Fin's hate to back away or order him to stop.

"You done more hurt here," Fin continued, "than Chief Sullivan ever thought about doing, and all 'cause of some damn oak leaves for your damn collar. Most of us hope you're promoted and taken the fuck out of here. I'm thinking you oughta retire right where you are—a captain who's nothing but a shit stain on his command…."

Fin's upper lip rose as though he knew a "sir" should end his condemnation. Instead, he stiffened his posture, bracing himself for the blowback his insubordination deserved.

To Cragen, each accusation felt like a fist slamming his gut. Slowly, he worked to loosen clenched jaw muscles then he looked Fin square in the eye.

"I know."

Fin's eyebrows rose at the simple declaration.

"You know?"

"It finally hit me. That's way I called you and Al in—so I could apologize, and start making things right."

_But, after all the crap I dumped on everyone… it's no wonder he doesn't believe me…._

"I know you don't believe me," Cragen told him, "and I don't blame you. All I can do ask you to let me prove I mean it."

Nothing shifted in Fin's expression or stance.

"Yes, sir."

The flatness with which he spoke told Cragen all he needed.

_He thinks I'm doing this so I'll look good for the promotion board…._

Too humbled to hide his disappointment, Cragen let his shoulders slump as he drew in a deep breath.

_Better let this be for now… but there's one item I have to correct.. not because it hurts me, but because it's probably the problem between him and Sofarelli…._

Cragen cleared his throat.

"There is one more thing…."

Fin stiffened with his weight on the balls of his feet then, ever so slightly, he edged toward the door.

_He acts like I just aimed a shotgun at him—man, he really doesn't trust me… but I can't let this one go unsaid…._

"If I could guarantee a promotion," Cragen said, "I'd guarantee my own. All I did was get Al into the exam. If he passes it, he goes on the sergeant's list, and he gets his stripes when he reaches the top, and not one second before."

Fin scowled at him.

"That's not what I heard."

"Then you heard wrong," Cragen assured him. "You know as well as I do when an officer makes sergeant depends on the length of the list. It is completely out of my hands"

Fin's eyes narrowed again as he weighed Cragen's statement. Nothing in his expression gave away what his decision might be. Several seconds passed before he spoke.

"I should check on Dunham and Bowers. Am I dismissed?"

When Cragen nodded, Fin spun on his heel and went to the door. He stepped over the threshold and paused as though he might turn back, but he instead pulled the door closed behind him. Now alone in the privacy of his office, Cragen sank into his chair, the weight of Fin's anger pressing down on him.

_I didn't expect that from Fin… if he's pissed at me, then things are much worse than I feared…._

Front Desk of the Sixteenth Precinct  
29 July

Couch took the stairs down to the main floor of the precinct house. So quickly did he move that only the slap of shoe sole kept his descent from being an uncontrolled tumble down the six flights.

_Cragen sent me out of his office like I'm a kid when the grown-ups need to talk... Tutuola gets to tell his side first... he'll put it all on me... I'm sick of his attitude… he wants me to take a swing at him… it's not gonna happen… I'll lose everything if I take him out…._

Sofarelli hit the access door with both hands, shoving it open with no thought to who or what might be on its other side. The hall was empty with nothing to impede his dash to the motor pool with its rack of cars keys. He swung wide around the front desk and was almost to the rear door when a gruff voice called out to him.

"Hey, Sofarelli—come back here!"

Couch reversed his course at the desk sergeant's command.

"What can I do for you, Sarge?"

Sgt. Valeri, a bear of a man with a thick pelt of iron-gray hair cut brush-style, gave the area around the front desk a sweeping glare before addressing the detective before him.

"Neville says you're our go-to guy when it comes to towel-heads."

The epithet told Couch all he needed to know about the sergeant.

_But I'm in no mood to argue it…._

"Yep," he agreed, making sure a hint of ice cooled his words, "I'm the expert in all things Arab."

Valeri beckoned him closer to the desk.

"Last coupla days," he told Couch, "we've had lots of them come by here. They loiter on the sidewalk then they come in and ask questions."

_Sounds like Asma Eshan when she came here… she stood outside with Munira until Judith and I convinced her it was safe to come inside with us… it takes a lot of courage to come here when you associate the police with beatings, bribery, and 'disappeared' relatives…._

"How many are 'lots?'" he asked the sergeant.

Valeri raised both hands, palms up and shoulder-width apart, to indicate the vast quantity of them.

"Six or seven."

"What sort of questions?"

"'Where do I license my bicycle?' and 'How do I complain about a parking problem?' Yesterday, one of them asked me about noisy neighbors. He wanted to know if they were allowed to play their radio after midnight."

"Are they all men? How are they dressed?"

Valeri nodded then replied, "Like normal people. No turbans or robes, if that's what you mean. "

_Everything sounds perfectly normal to me…._

Couch took a careful look at the desk sergeant.

_Between the military haircut, all his service stripes, and the World Trade Center bar above his badge, I don't think Valeri will listen to a lecture on racial profiling… but that is exactly what he's doing...._

"Do you think they're casing the station house?"

Valeri shook his head at Couch's obtuseness.

"That's exactly what I think, Sofarelli—but you're the expert. Hang around a while and judge for yourself."

Couch explained that he was waiting on another detective so they could notify a couple about the death of their daughter.

"Well, then stick around here when you get back or do it tomorrow. These guys keep showing up, and I know they're up to no good."

Couch promised that he would do that and, to show he was taking the sergeant seriously, he departed through the main entrance so he could survey the sidewalk outside.

_I don't see any 'towel-heads''... no 'sand monkeys' or 'camel-jockeys' or 'dune coons' either… just a bigot of a sergeant whose grandparents probably heard similar names shouted at them when they arrived here…._

He made a mental note to spend some time at the front desk over the next few days.

_If I can catch one of these civilians asking a question, maybe I can convince Valeri that it's nothing to worry about… Muslims ride bikes and like quiet at night just like every one else…._

Office of D. Cragen  
29 July

Cragen closed the door of his office then he waited until Sofarelli was seated before asking him about the notification.

_Turns out Angela Arellano's parents are here illegally… they spent the past week worried sick about their daughter, but were too scared of 'La Migra' to call and report her missing…. Couch assured them that they could claim their daughter's body without any hassles… sounds like he handled this just fine… unfortunately, they had no idea where she was or who she was with when she went missing… Al and Dan Womack from Howie's shift tried Arellano's place of employment, but no one there knew anything, either…._

After Couch finished answer Cragen's questions, he asked one of his own.

"Is Tutuola in with Dunham and Bowers?"

"No. I told him to hold off until you got back."

Couch glanced right to see if he could spot Fin in the squadroom. Cragen cleared his throat to bring the detective's attention back to him.

"I talked to Fin while you were gone. He thinks I guaranteed you both your sergeant's stripes and a slot here. Is this what's gotten between the two of you?"

Unlike the last time he had asked Couch to discuss his fellow detectives, the younger man wasted no time before answering.

"Yep. He hates the idea of me in command here."

Cragen puzzled over his statement.

_Because you're still new or because Fin thinks I'm pulling strings for you? _

He shrugged the question away as no longer important.

"I reminded Fin a promotion almost always means an immediate change in command, and I assured him that you'll earn those strips on your own merits, not mine. Let me know if he doesn't come around."

"Yes, sir."

"When you do make sergeant, I'll hate losing you. You're really working out well here."

"Thank you, sir."

Cragen moved from his chair to the edge of his desk.

_Staying behind my desk feels like I'm ordering Al to forgive me... sure wish I could do that...._

Couch's eyes narrowed as he watched Cragen move closer to him.

_Not much trust from him, either...._

He took in a deep breath.

_Maybe, this time, I can get through my prepared apology...._

"Al, I know you seen how I haven't been paying much attention to the unit recently. My excuse at first was being busy with the contract negotiations. Then, it was one last try at making deputy inspector. When I spared some time for unit matters, it was only to make sure they didn't screw up my promotion chances.

"It hit me a couple days ago what I was really doing. I was taking my anger at Tommy Sullivan, Diane Wilkerson, and Greg Lau, and I was dumping it on my people, treating you guys like enemies instead of my team."

Cragen paused to judge Couch's reaction.

_Al's listening... still wary, but he's not about to blow up at me...._

"Part of what I need to do to make things right again," Cragen continued, " is to tell you that I was wrong. I was wrong to ignore you and Judith after she almost broke your nose. I should have left you two together, and not swept the problem under the rug by putting you with Fin. Those are just two examples. I'm sure you can list plenty of others."

He drew in another deep breath.

"All I can say is I've taken steps to ensure I don't make the same mistakes again, and that I regret the way I treated you and your fellow detectives."

Cragen then sat back and observed the younger man.

_Mouth open, eyes wide... of course he's stunned... "I'm sorry" isn't part of the official NYPD lexicon...._  
_  
_Couch finally spoke up.

"You're apologizing... to all of us?"

Cragen nodded. "I'm planning to talk to every one on your shift."

Couch's mouth twitched, but he didn't say anything as he stared at a point just short of Cragen's face.

_C'mon, Al—say something...._

Finally, Couch said, "I need to find Fin. We can't hold Dunham and Bowers forever, and we both have tomorrow off."

Cragen stood up.

_Guess that's that… maybe he's chewing it over… I can hope he is…._

"Fine," he told Couch. "I'll come see how you're doing with Casey after she finishes with Banks."

The younger man got up from his chair, and left without meeting Cragen's gaze. That avoidance, and the speed with which he departed, made Cragen wonder about his plan.

_Both Fin and Al—that's two of out eight… maybe I'm doing more harm than good…._

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
30 July (Friday)

At eight o'clock, Cragen emerged from his office and swept the room with a glance. Olivia, John, Judith, Chester, and Donna, the only ones present, avoided eye contact with him. When he asked to speak with Judith in his office, no one said a word until she had disappeared behind the closing office door.

"Anyone know what that's about?" Lake asked, but no one had as much as a good guess.

Olivia was pouring her second cup of coffee when Elliot breezed into the room. He tossed a folder onto Olivia's keyboard before taking a seat at his desk.

John looked up from the newspaper he was reading.

"Why is it," he called to the room at-large, "when I'm even one minute late, everyone starts laying wagers but, when Elliot is tardy, no one notices?

Elliot leaned back and set both feet on his desk before answering.

"Because, John, my excuses are boring: alarm didn't go off, teacher conference, kid home sick with a fever. You have very inventive excuses: Harley accidents, abduction by black helicopters, anthrax outbreak in your building…."

Munch glared at Elliot from over his lenses.

"As usual, Stabler," he replied, "you fail to grasp the basics. Black helicopters don't abduct people; alien spaceships abduct people."

Loudoun raised her index finger and pointed it at Munch.

"You're wrong. Spaceships don't abduct people. Aliens abduct people."

Her correction drew a snort of protest from John.

"Perhaps the spaceships themselves are sentient beings. Have you considered that possibility?"

Olivia sighed.

_It's like listening to John and Fin… same loopy conspiracies, same crazy logic… well, better Donna gets stuck with it than me…._

She tuned out their conversation, and picked up the folder Elliot had dropped on her desk. After she had read through the hand-written notes inside it, she caught her partner's attention with a quiet cough.

"'Not really happy about it?'" she asked. "Is that what your reporter friend said was Newman's reaction to his appointment?"

Elliot swung his legs from his desktop so he could roll his chair around to Olivia's side. He leaned close to her so no one could overhear their conversation.

"That's exactly how Jerry put it," he said in a hushed voice. "When Jerry spoke to him on the phone after the governor's announcement, Newman said all the right things—'It is a great honor' and 'I will work hard', and so on, but it didn't sound like Newman's heart was in it. Jerry wondered if Newman was simply awe-struck by his new job but, after he heard about the ex-fiancée and Newman's suicide, he said it all fell into place."

"So," Olivia whispered back, "he's not suspicious about the suicide?"

"Nope, not after he did some digging and found Newman had told some of his friends how life without Jenny really didn't seem worth it. That clenched it for him."

Olivia considered her partner's findings.

_I was certain before… if suits Elliot, then we're good to go…._

"So, are you ready to tell Branch how Beale's in the clear?" she asked.

He nodded in reply. "I'll buy lunch if you'll write up the report."

Olivia poked her finger at the pile of paper on her desk.

_I have plenty to do already… but a free lunch is nothing to sneeze at…_

"Make that two lunches, and you have a deal."

"Sounds good to me."

Elliot braced his foot to shove his chair away but, before he could move, Cragen's office door opened, and Judith emerged, leaving the door ajar behind her.

_What the hell? Judith looks stunned—almost ready to cry…._

Both Elliot and Olivia watched the older woman as she made her way toward Munch and Loudoun. John, who was reading a report on French UFOs to Loudoun from his monitor, did not notice her approach until Judith halted by his side.

"The captain wants you in his office," Judith told him.

John raised an eyebrow.

"And what does our not-so-glorious leader want from _moi_?"

Otten's mouth opened, but moments passed before she found a reply.

"He… he wants to apologize."

"The hell he does."

Munch launched himself towards Cragen's office as Judith scrambled out of his way. On his way past their desks, he paused to glare at Elliot and Olivia.

"I'm telling him exactly where he can stick his apology."

Five pairs of eyes watched John march through the office door. At the last possible moment, he grabbed its knob and slammed it shut behind him. Four pairs of eyes then shifted their focus to Judith, who avoided their gaze by fussing with the cactus garden on her desk.

Olivia spoke up first.

"Judith, apologize for what?"

The older woman kept her attention on the spiny plants before her.

"Everything," she replied. "His lack of leadership, ignoring our cases, the threats he made—everything."

Both Loudoun and Lake frowned at the mention of threats. Behind Olivia, Elliot said, "That's what Smoot told us—remember?"

_Yeah… Smoot said something about Cragen forcing Judith and John to work together… she was listening while waiting in the hall outside his office… she said he sounded cruel and vindictive… neither of us thought Cragen could stoop that low…._

"Thing is…."

Judith's voice shook as she continued her reply.

"He might mean it, but I'm just not there yet."

She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, and held it up for Lake to see.

"If something comes in for us, call me. I'll come back."

Without another word, she departed through the door by the holding tank. Olivia tried to hear what was being said behind the closed office door, but her partner's opinion overrode the faint murmur of voices.

"It doesn't matter if he means it," Elliot announced. "It's too damn late for 'I'm sorry.'"

Olivia agreed with an emphatic nod.

_Can't dispute that…._

"Maybe Cragen is trying make things look good for our new CO."

Chester said, "None of my COs ever apologized unless ordered to by the brass. This probably is a condition of his promotion."

"Then it's a smart move," Donna chimed in. "Have Cragen throw everyone a bone to keep us happy until he's out of here."

Elliot shook his head.

"Doubt it," he said. "If One P.P. had a clue, they'd do what they done before—scratch his name off the list. They care about close rates, not how much we love—"

John's voice from Cragen's office interrupted him.

"After everything you've done? Screw you!"

The door swung open and John stomped out, his face pale and twisted into a sneer that warned them to stay out of his way. He went for the stairs, taking them at two at a time, his hand on the railing to pull himself along with each step.

Olivia swung her chair around to check Elliot's reaction, but the sight of Cragen halted her in mid-spin. He stood in his doorway, his gaze following John's progress. Nothing in his expression or demeanor showed concern or worry about his detective's anger.

When the door to the seventh floor slammed, he turned to face Olivia with the same carefully blank expression.

_Looks like it's my turn… ._

Olivia got to her feet before Cragen could call for her. The captain said nothing until he had shut his office door then he asked her to take a seat.

_I should stay on my feet and tell him off like John did but, asshole or not, he's still my CO, which makes a polite request the same as an order…._

She lowered herself into the chair, keeping her back ramrod straight and her hands flat against her legs. She then fixed a stern glare on his face to show him how little his sorrow meant to her.

_You made me shift lead under false pretenses… on top of everything else you've done, you lied to me…._

Olivia saw his lips compress ever so slightly and, when he settled against his desk, his shoulders seemed to sag as thought her disapproval was a burden he could not bear.

_Too damn bad…._

He launched into what sounded like a generic explanation.

_He was too busy making himself shine for the promotion board to do his job… tell me something I don't know…._

When Cragen starting talking about his delayed reaction to the betrayals and violence inflicted by Sullivan and Lau, something stirred in her memory.

_The four of us discussing how dropping Lau might affect Judith… Fin jumped in to say Cragen was as likely to crack as she was… I blew it off as ridiculous… we all blew it off…._

She examined her CO, looking for tells as to what was driving his recitation.

_He's leaning slightly away from me… he's swallowing more than usual… there's just a bit of twitch in his fingers… nervous, definitely nervous… but he should be furious at me—I'm not buying what he's selling… he should follow the same pattern he's used the past six weeks—blow up at us, jam us up, wall us off—but he isn't…._

Her examination reached his face just as he was saying how much he regretted his actions. When her gaze locked with his, Cragen stopped in mid-sentence. For an instant, his gaze lost its focus, and his mouth sagged as though he realized how empty his words sounded to her.

The depth of emotion in that instant rocked Olivia against the back of her chair.

_This isn't about looking good for the brass… Cragen woke up to what he's done… sort of like what hit me after I taped up that list of Tammy's… the hurt and anger it caused was my fault, and it was my responsibility to make things right… take that stomach-churning dread I felt when Elliot and Kathy approached me in their church parking lot, then add the weight of command and the captain's usual deep concern for his people… no wonder he looks sick…._

Her innate empathy, the identification she always felt with those who hurt, welled up inside her. Olivia leaned forward, her hands held out and open to show how much she cared.

"Don," she said, "it's okay. I understand. You don't have to explain."

_Just go back to being you… stop being an asshole chasing a promotion…._

Cragen gaped at her as though suspecting a trap. Olivia tried to smile, and was surprised how natural it felt on her lips.

_Let's get everything back where it belongs—you in command, watching over us, keeping us sane… us working together… victims and perps getting justice… everything back the way it used to be… okay?  
_  
In response to her smile, Cragen squared his shoulders then said a quiet, "Thank you." The understated gesture broadened her smile.

_That's the captain I remember… unassuming and tough as nails…_

She sat back and let all the tension and doubt drain away.  
_  
It's so good to have you back…._

Olivia's "all is right with the world again" feeling lasted until she returned to her desk. There, it met Elliot's incredulous glare and the abrupt way he ignored Cragen's request.

"You look happy," he asked. "Why?"

"Because," she whispered in reply, "every thing's going to be fine."

"The hell it is."

Olivia reached out and patted the air between them, a calming gesture she hoped would put his concerns to rest.

"Really, El," she assured him. "It is."

Elliot's eyes narrowed as he frowned at her.

"I'll be the judge of that."

Office of D. Cragen  
30 July

Elliot's march into Cragen's office was so swift, the captain was a blur as he strode past him. Stabler then came to a halt before the desk, where he executed a perfect right-face before standing at attention to wait further commands.

_If Cragen wants to order me to accept his apology, then I'll accept it… if he wants me to believe he really means it, then he's gonna have to prove it to me…. I'm not helping him polish this turd for the promotion board—no, sir…._

He stood with head erect, eyes front, stomach in, chest arched, shoulders square, arms straight at his sides with his fingers cųrled as though holding rolls of coins, a position he held until the captain closed his door, and came over to stand by his desk.

"Have a seat, Detective."

Elliot did so, but he sat with the same rigidity as he had stood.

_I'm pissed over the way he dumped me as lead… for blaming me when I thought he'd caved in to Sullivan—hell, when I came in here that night, he looked like a rabbit cowering in front of a wolf… Sullivan and Simms bought his act—why blame me for believing it, too?_

Other reasons roiled through his head: Cragen's special favors to Sofarelli, his failure to make sure Judith was handling the aftereffects from shooting Greg Lau, the way he left Lake and Loudoun to sink or swim after their transfers….

_I can't blame Cragen for going after that promotion—even if it is hopeless… but he didn't remember his responsibilities here… he's supposed to control and supervise his people… he sure as hell blew it there…._

Cragen cleared his throat, but Elliot kept his eyes front.

_I can listen just fine without looking at you… you're my CO so you get my obedience… my trust comes at a higher price, especially when you threw it away once already…._

From the corner of his eye, Elliot saw the captain's face sag.

_But you'll finish this charade… whatever you are now, you've never been a quitter…._

Then, in a quiet steady voice, Cragen began to speak.

"Elliot, you were still a beat cop when I helped Adam Schiff and Ben Stone convict Peter O'Farrell. A lot of people still spit when they hear my name, but it was that or let O'Farrell make me the fall guy so he, Congressman Wilson, and their banker friends could stay out of prison."

Cragen pointed to the floor just inside his office door.

"When Commissioner Richardson stood there and asked me if it was _déjà vu_ with Tommy Sullivan, he had it right. I was doing exactly the same thing—wearing a wire to bring down a Chief. That's twice now that senior commanding officers, both men I called 'friend', tried to make me take the fall for their actions. The only difference this time is that no one forced me to do it. I just got fed up with Sullivan's crap, and I went after him with everything I had."

He paused. To Elliot, it looked like the captain was fighting back nausea.

"Everything I had," he continued, "was not enough. Sullivan had more than enough juice to make his version of events stick. You, John, and Judith would have been canned, Fin demoted, and I'd have been 'allowed to retire' as a lieutenant. Sullivan, Wilkerson and Lau—them and their disrespect for the department and their disregard for their fellow officers. To lie and blackmail and murder the way they did…."

Elliot saw the captain's eyes go dark as he glared into space.

_He's acting like Sullivan's conniving, and the extortions and murders of Wilkerson and company were all directed at him… I guess I can see that—once he refused to knuckle under to Wilkerson's blackmail, and after we refused to obey Sullivan, they all tried their damnedest to get back at him…._

Fin's warning ran through his head, joining with the thread of Elliot's thoughts.

_'Cap'n got __threatened, beat up, almost taken hostage, got his arm broke, then his friend turns on him and tries to ruin his life'… Fin warned us how those things were more than enough to trigger post-traumatic stress… no one believed him at the time... when it became obvious Fin was right, I was so angry, I didn't care…._

Cragen drew in a deep breath, and Elliot turned his attention back to him.

"I don't know why," the captain said, "I took my anger out on you guys instead of Sullivan, but that's what I've been doing. When I realized it, I made an appointment with Dr. Elizabeth Olivet…"

Elliot blinked to keep his eyes from bugging out.

_You volunteered to see a shrink? Now? Man, if the promotion board gets wind of this, that slim chance you've got becomes no chance at all…._

"… and I decided to make things right. SVU is too important a unit for me to ruin, and its detectives deserve better than I've been giving them. You especially, Elliot. You didn't deserve the crap I dumped on you."

Cragen paused again, his mouth working as though it had gone dry.

_You're getting ready to ask my forgiveness… but that's asking a lot… I've been angry for so long, I can't just turn it off… I'm stuck between 'That's okay' and 'Fuck both you and your golf clubs'…._

Before Cragen could resume his speech, Elliot spoke up.

"Look, Cap—I know what you'd trying to do, but I can't get from where I am right now to where you want me to be. I got to think about it—work it out in my head first."

_I might not ever get there… but I may be able to admit you tried… assuming you actually mean it…._

Cragen held his gaze for a moment before nodding.

"That's all I ask."

Elliot jumped to his feet.

_Better get out of here before I decide 'Fuck you' is what I really want to say…._


	8. Attempting to Mend Fences: part two

A/N: Joe Fontana knows that the origin of the phrase "My name is mud" is Dr. Samuel Mudd, who treated John Wilkes Booth's broken leg after Booth assassinated President Abraham Lincoln. Federal authorities charged him as a conspirator, which he may have been, and he was tried and convicted. President Andrew Johnson pardoned him in 1869, but his reputation was ruined.

MIA: Missing in Action (just in case someone doesn't know)

Again, any departures from SVU canon or NYPD procedures are for the purposes of this story.

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
30 July (Friday)

Elliot avoided Olivia's attempts to get his attention when he returned to his desk. With him saying nothing, John and Judith still MIA, and Chester and Donna called together into Cragen's office, the room held a quiet almost as deep as that heard in the wee hours when they all were elsewhere.

_You'd think I'd like working with it quiet…. instead, I'm straining to hear what Loudoun and Lake are saying, wondering if I'm the only one who believes Cragen really means this...._

She considered calling Fin at home to see if the captain had talked to him.

_After all, he nailed it… but I'll have to admit he was right if I bring it up…._

That thought kept her hand away from the phone. A quick glance at her partner showed no signs of chattiness.

_Head down, eyes on the ACS report on the Collins family… his hands aren't clenched and he's not grinding his teeth—those are good signs… he's not about to blow—he's thinking... maybe, if I crank out that report for Branch, it will help sweeten his mood…._

It took her a few minutes to enter the interview information. Olivia then summarized the contents of each interview, and transcribed Elliot's notes from his talk with Jerry Wilks of the Ledger. When that was done, she wrote the conclusion.

"_Nothing learned in our telephone interview with Randolph Blais or in our interviews with James Stephanos, Keith Schmidt, Holly Newman, and Jerry Wilks supports the allegation that SVU Bureau Chief Andrew Beale stalked Blais, Newman, Schmidt, or Stephanos, nor did we uncover any evidence that Andrew Beale solicited any form of favor, sexual or otherwise, from these four men. Said interviews also did not provide any evidence linking Andrew Beale to the suicide of Marc Newman."_

She sent the report to the printer just as Chester and Donna emerged from Cragen's office, followed by the captain. They went to their desks; Cragen, carrying a case folder and a reporter's notebook under his arm, and a slip of paper in his hand, swept his gaze around the room before heading toward Olivia. She quickly clicked over to her departmental e-mail screen.

_Donna's bursting to tell me what happened… Chester looks thoughtful… you'd think Cragen would look relieved to get it over with, but he doesn't… guess he hoped for better results…._

"I'm very late for a breakfast meeting," the captain told her, "then I have to run by One P.P. After that, I'll be at Casey's office for Jenner's trial prep. Call me if anything comes up."

"Sure thing, sir. Will you be back for the shift meeting?"

"I should be. Where's Munch and Otten?"

Elliot's head rose enough that she could see him glare at her.

_Sorry, but I'm telling him the truth... he is our CO...._

"John headed to the roof after he left your office," she told him. "Judith left for parts unknown, but she's in the building."

_I think…._

Cragen handed her the slip of paper. "This just came in. Have Lake and Loudoun handle it. Let me know how well they work together."

Olivia nodded and Cragen left.

"Chester, Donna," she called while spinning her chair to face Lake's desk. "We got a woman reporting possible abuse of her son by a family member. Here's the contact info."

Both detectives stood up to leave, but Elliot waved Chester over to his desk.

"What Cragen tell you?" he asked them.

"He said the disorganization here was due to his being preoccupied with other matters," Chester replied. "Can't say I mind much since one of those 'other matters' affects the size of my paycheck."

From her locker, where she was getting her gear, Loudoun snickered. When Olivia turned toward her, Donna pointed in the direction of the women's restroom. Olivia nodded.

_Soon as Elliot and Chester finish... I need to figure out what my partner's thinking...._

"Yeah, the contract is important," Elliot shot back. "What else did he say?"

Chester shrugged. "That he regretted his lack of attention to us. He asked how things were going then he scheduled lunch with each of us next week. We updated him on our cases and that was that. Seemed straight-up to me."

Elliot gave him a tight smile. "Guess so. Thanks for letting me know—oh, and avoid the dark blue one, license ending in -7E. The A/C is busted."

Olivia excused herself with "Be right back" and followed Lake from the squadroom.

"Been nice if he'd said something about grabbing me from Brooklyn," Chester said as they walked down the hall. "That's the only thing bugging me."

"Maybe he didn't know you didn't want to transfer. He might have asked if an experienced detective was available, and the Chief of Dees and Bureau Chief Beale gave him you. Right now, it seems like whatever Cragen wants magically appears."

"Nothing wrong with having a hook," Lake replied, "except when it's dragging me around."

Chester turned off for the elevator as Olivia headed for the restroom. Inside, she found Donna waiting for her.

"Captain Cragen," she told Olivia, "called us in to watch him sing _I'm Sorry_ like a husband whose mistress sent him back to his wife. After letting his command fall completely apart, he somehow found religion—except nobody believes him so nothing is going to change."

Donna threw her arms wide, a gesture of confusion and frustration that matched her shrill voice.

"When does this start making sense, Olivia? When?"

Olivia folded her arms across her chest and leaned against a stall door as she considered her answer.

_Good question... maybe it isn't going to... but I can't tell her that...._

"If Cragen starts paying attention again," she assured Loudoun, "things should settle down—if only because he's watching."

Donna placed both hands on her hips, and frowned at her.

"You mean Cragen smiles, and everyone starts liking each other again? Trust blooms like flowers in the spring, and goodness and mercy start following us all the days of our lives?"

Olivia chuckled at the sarcasm.

"Maybe not that good, but it should be better."

Donna shook her head.

"Well, we'll just have to see what comes along."

She brushed past Olivia, leaving her wondering if there were more ways for things to go awry.

Steven's Tavern  
261 8th Ave  
1 August (Sunday)

When construction began on the new Madison Square Garden in 1964, Steven's Tavern was a run-down neighborhood bar. The project, built on the site of the demolished Pennsylvania Station, prompted the tavern's owners to expand and renovate to attract the crowds of sports fans that would soon be on their doorstep. Decades of success proved the intelligence of their decision. Steven's Tavern, now a world-famous restaurant and bar, featured several airy dining rooms decorated in rich woods and neutral colors, the better to show off its patrons and its food.

_I've lived in the neighborhood for years… never been in this place…._

Ed Green thought back to the prices on the dinner menu.

_Good thing Joe's picking up the tab…._

Ed dug into his vegetable Caesar salad. Across the booth from him, Joe shoved his short ribs around on their plate. Both men were drinking: beer for Ed, cabernet for Joe.

_Joe suggested we meet here, but he's not saying much… I've been so busy trying to train Cassady and keep her from messing up our cases, I don't know what's up with him… maybe he just wants company… maybe, I'm supposed to figure out whatever is bugging him… play detective for him on my day-off… whatever is eating at him, it's making him look tired… and he's picked up a few pounds… come to think of it, more than a few… it's almost like he's wearing a vest under that green shirt of his…._

Ed shifted his feet and hit something hard, something that moved away at the same time Joe's position shifted.

_That didn't feel like shoe leather or ankle…._

He took a closer look at Fontana, who avoided his gaze.

_Ankle holsters are for back-up… that and the vest means he's got a primary weapon at his waist under that shirt he's wearing loose… I didn't see a 'print', but I wasn't looking…._

"Joe, are you carrying?"

Fontana's eyes snapped up from his short ribs. He glanced at the group seated next to them, checking that they were not listening into his conversation, before he answered in a whisper.

"Yeah."

Mindful of Joe's caution, Ed hid his surprise at the admission.

"Joe, he replied in a voice just as hushed, "that's a Class C felony. Why risk three-and-a-half upstate?"

Jo stiffened and glared at Ed. The younger man held his ground.

_He won't lie to me… if you're Joe's partner or Judith or his family, you get the truth… he considers everybody else fair game…. _

Finally, the glare faded. Joe frowned at Ed then tipped his head to indicate the other side of the room.

"For the same reason I'm paying that man in the tan cotton jacket to eat dinner here tonight. Remember how I told you about Janez Golja?"

Ed nodded, so used to Joe's manner of speaking that the abrupt subject change did not throw him.

_Golja was one of your busts from the Bronx… A Slovenian mobster running a trucking company… he put out a hit on some Dominicans who hijacked one of his trucks… seems the truck was filled with restricted computer gear Golja was going to smuggle into Bulgaria …. Janez got the maximum; his brother Lorec took over his business…._

"Well," Joe continued, "I got a letter from him up in Ossining that told me I was an easy target without my shield. Next day, I got a phone message from Tomás Crespo's head thug saying the same thing."

"Crespo? Who's he?"

"Drug dealer that Salone and me nailed for a triple homicide back in 2001, right after those damn Muslims took the Towers down. There were other messages, but those two seemed like they meant it."

"So you—?"

"So I hired Praesidium Services, the best security company on the east coast, to watch my back. Satisfied?"

Joe picked up his silverware and attacked his short ribs while Ed swallowed a mouthful of fear-induced bile.

_He's got people gunning for him… or he thinks they are—same difference… but why not tell me or Van Buren? We'd have stepped up… no reason to hire security goons…._

"Joe," he asked, "why didn't you come to me? I'd have—"

Fontana cut his sentence off with a wave of his knife.

"Because, as far as the NYPD is concerned, my name is Mudd. I can't risk your career and pension just to keep me safe. Besides, these guys are also watching my home and SL—you know, in case someone plants a bomb or something."

Joe spoke light-heartedly, as though the topic was too minor to deserve his full attention, but the tightness in his jaw and the sideways glance he gave Ed showed the stress he was feeling.

_Damn… he means it…._

"So, you got—?"

"Two operatives on me at all times. That guy in the tan jacket is one. Another is outside watching the SL. I figure, between them and me, I'll be fine—and, before you ask, I already told Judith about this."

Ed suppressed a smile.

_I think I just heard a warning not to mention this to Judith…._

"So, she knows about—"

"Yeah, and she's none too happy, but she helped pick the security company so she's good with it. Can we talk about something else, huh?"

Ed took a bite of his salad before complying.

"Want to update me on your appeal?"

A fierce snarl distorted Joe's mustache.

"That twerp Dworkin went through my finances like a dog after fleas. Of course, he found nothing odd so he thinks we can prove I didn't bribe anyone at One P.P. Next step is getting depositions from anyone who could have buried those complaints to show I didn't ask any of them to bury those complaints."

Joe pointed an index finger at Ed.

"Do you know how many people Dworkin wants to depose?"

Caught with mouthful of beer, Ed could only shake his head in reply.

"Darn near one hundred—everyone from the commissioner down to the clerks working the Civilian Review Board. It's gonna take months—more if Balzano drags it out."

Ed put his beer down so he could gape at Fontana.

"Damn, Joe. Can't you weed out at least a few of them?"

"We did. Dworkin is targeting only those people who could have had access to my personnel file. That's where the only copies of those complaints were. The hope is one of these people will know how they got there."

"Are you asking them how that copy of your jacket got delivered to me?" Ed asked.

Fontana nodded.

"So far, all we know is that it magically appeared in the inter-precinct mail. We even had the envelope dusted. Only you, me, our desk sergeant, and the mail clerk touched it."

Joe resumed picking at his dinner so Ed went back to his salad. They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Joe's scowl softened.

"Did I tell you," he asked, "we picked a date for the wedding?"

Ed paused in mid-chew.

_Never thought I'd hear that sentence come out of your mouth…._

"Nope," he replied. "You haven't said a word about it."

"Well, we did. August 29th. It's a Sunday. We're gonna get the invitations out this week."

"I have to say, Joe—I never thought I'd be seeing you get married."

Joe's smile widened into a mustache-ruffling grin.

"Neither did I. It's like a whole new world opened up for me. I spent yesterday playing grandpa—well, almost. Her granddaughters aren't calling me that yet, but Judith and I took them to the park for a picnic lunch, and we had a great time. Never thought I'd ever be doing that."

Ed tried to picture Joe sprawled on the grass eating a sandwich.

_I just can't do it…._

"What do her grandkids call you?"

"The older one, Nila, calls me 'Detective Fontana.' Judith says the formality is because she still remembers her grandfather, and that will change down the road. Cara, the little one, calls me 'Mr. Walrus.'"

"What? Why?"

"Cara thinks everyone has to be an animal. I'm a walrus; Munch is a giraffe; Judith's an owl. Judith says it's a phase she's going through."

Ed considered mentioning how male walruses keep harems of females.

_Better not bring that up…._

"How about the rest of the family?" he asked. "Are they coming around?"

Joe's grin faltered.

"All but her older son; he still wants nothing to do with me. I went with Judith to her synagogue Friday night, and Derek was there with his wife. Soon as we came in, they both jumped to their feet, picked up their baby carrier, and left. Judith didn't say anything, but I think she wanted to cry. I've tried calling Derek to talk to him about this, but he won't answer or return my calls."

"That's tough, Joe."

Joe shrugged away Ed's concern.

"Not much else I can do about it. I barely remember Cammie's mother, let alone Cammie, but I did check, and Tamara Landis wasn't married when I was seeing her so I don't know why Cammie is so mad at me."

Ed, having heard the entire story several times, nodded his head in sympathy.

"They'll both come around, Joe," he said. "After all, they can't keep Judith from her grandson forever."

"I hope not. Judith's upset enough as it is. Any way, enough about my problems—what's up with you and the beauty queen?"

For the third time that evening, Joe caught Ed off-guard.

_You're actually asking me to talk about something beside you? Damn…._

However, thinking about his current partner....

_... better term for her is 'millstone'..._

... soured the beer in Ed's stomach.

'Joe," he told Fontana, "the sooner you get back, the better. If I was as clueless as Cassady is, Lennie would have shot me and put me out of my misery. That girl mishandles evidence, says the wrong things to the wrong people, and she keeps sassing the lieutenant. I don't know what I'm gonna…."

Ed let his words trail off when Joe grabbed his wine glass, and raised it as though toasting him.

"Welcome to senior partnerhood, pal. Isn't it fun?"

"No, it ain't."

Joe chuckled as he sipped his wine.

"Don't worry about Cassady. Either she'll get the hang of it or Van Buren will dump her in some other unit. No way in hell will she put up with a dumbass detective."

Their conversation continued in that same vein: stupid detectives each had worked with, tall tales about past cases, departmental rumors and gossip. Ed kept away from anything close to Joe's situation. When the meal was consumed and the check had been left on the table, Joe pulled out his cell and hit a speed-dial number.

Ed noted that the man in the tan jacket across the room took a cell phone from his pocket and held it to his ear.

"Wainwright, you ready?" Joe said into his phone. "Good, 'cause we're about to leave."

Joe pulled a few bills from his pocket wad and left them for the server just as the other man signaled for his check then made another call.

"We have to give him a few minutes," Joe told Ed. "He's supposed to leave before I do."

"Then what happens?"

"He and his partner follow me home," Joe replied. "It's like those protective custody details we work together only these guys aren't living with me in a sleazy hotel."

Ed indicated the departing operative with a nod of his head.

"Joe, this is just protection, right? You're not planning on taking out Golja and Crespo's boys yourself?"

The cold stare Joe gave Ed served as his only answer. The older man then busied himself with putting his cell and money clip away while Ed pondered the situation.

_Somehow, I don't think Joe's gonna take a back seat on this...._

He reached across the table, and grabbed Joe's arm.

"Hey, bro—if anything goes down, tell me you're gonna let the security dudes handle it."

Joe stiffened and his lip çurled as though he were ready to rip Ed a new one. Just as quickly, he deflated. For an instant, he looked old and scared, then he shook it off.

"It's their show," he told Ed. "I'm simply ready in case I need to be."

With that, Joe slid from the booth.

_No joke, no snide remark, just bald fact... I guess he means it... good…._

The two men walked to the entrance then out to the sidewalk. Ed glanced up at the night sky.

_Clear, warm… good night for a walk… maybe see what's shaking at couple other places around here…._

Ed turned down Joe's offer of a ride back to his place, parting from him with a simple "You take care" before turning south toward his place.

Wizard Parking  
W 36th Street and Eighth Avenue  
1 August

It took less than two minutes for Joe to walk to the parking garage where he had left his SL.

_I'm supposed to park as close as possible… where the men watching me can also find a space… I hope they were happy… I'm not… what with this vest, the undershirt that smooths its lines, and my own shirt, I'm sweating like a pig just walking this far…._

A block away, the driver of a 2003 Dodge Ram 1500, dark red in color and not yet reported stolen, saw Fontana enter the garage. A flick of his wrist started the truck's engine, but he ignored the headlight switch.

Joe took the elevator up to the floor where he had left his SL. Down the row from it, he spotted Wainwright by the passenger door of a black Mercedes GL450.

_Looks like Bradley's driving this time…._

That the Praesidium operatives were there at all was due to the threats, Rob Dolan getting so close to him at Rocco's, and Judith's stubborn insistence that he either bring in professional security or allow her to arrange a detail on him.

_I appreciate her concern, but the department already booted me to the curb like I was garbage… I'm not letting them have another crack at me—not until I clear my reputation and get my shield back…._

Joe started his car.

_No 'boom' this time, but a .45 to the chest is more Golja's style… Crespo's thugs will use street pieces—whatever they can get their paws on… of course, when it concerns my skin, it never hurts to be too careful…._

After deciding to leave the retractable hardtop up, Joe drove down the ramps to the exit where he stopped to pay the attendant. The black SVU stayed close behind him. When it halted for the attendant, Joe rolled to a stop short of the sidewalk.

_I'm supposed to keep moving, not wait on them… they know I'm heading home… east to Seventh, then south… only a moron could lose me… but what the heck…. I'm in no hurry…._

A block away, the driver of the truck checked his seat belt and harness, then he turned the steering wheel to the right and stomped on the gas pedal. The Dodge, its Hemi engine capable of zero to sixty in 6.8 seconds, shot down West Thirty-sixth Street, gathering speed as it went.

In his rear-view mirror, Joe watched Bradley hand over the parking fee.

_About time… how about carrying your cash loose next time? It would be a lot—_

The truck jerked to its right as it passed the Hotel Barbour, just enough to aim its front bumper at the SL's driver-side door.

Joe never saw it coming.

Ed arrived thirty-five minutes later in response to a call from Sergeant Raitt from Midtown South.

_I ran into some friends outside the Blarney Stone… when the sector car went past me Code 3, we were deciding whether to go in and split a pitcher or two… didn't even get to taste my beer… the sergeant said he needed me to clear something up at a crime scene… even sent an RMP for me…._

The patrol car approached the sergeant's location on West Thirty-Sixth from Seventh Avenue. Ahead of them, Ed could see that the street was filled with RMPs, a fire truck from Engine 26, and two EMT buses, their work lights all focused on the entrance to a parking garage at the south side of the street. Several firefighters were stowing equipment into their trucks. Ed saw a man wrestling a powered extraction tool back into its storage bin.

Beyond the trucks, a paramedic grabbed the rear door of the one of the ambulances and swung it shut. When it was secure, his hand slapped its side and the bus pulled away, heading east with full lights and siren.

_Looks like someone missed the turn into the parking garage… probably drunk… _

He craned his neck, but nothing of the accident could be seen from his location.

_Just as well… only ghouls rubberneck…._

The RMP stopped next a group of uniforms and civilians gathered on the sidewalk by the Christ Church Memorial. Ed clipped his shield to his belt then exited the patrol car with a wave to thank the driver for the ride.

At his approach, a sergeant left the group of people to meet Ed.

"Sergeant Raitt. You Green?"

At Ed's nod, Raitt said, "Got two men here who say you can vouch for them."

Between the dark and the pulsating bar lights of the patrol cars, Ed had to walk up the men before he could recognize them.

_That's the guy from Steven's Tavern—Wainwright, I think Joe said the name was… why is he here? He's supposed to be following Joe—_

His stomach went ice-cold inside him.

"Excuse me."

He bolted for the parking garage, dodging people, ducking under crime scene tape, then skidding to a stop by the fire truck. There, he saw a maroon pickup truck angled across the sidewalk. Sandwiched between its front bumper and the wall was a mangled mess of drive train, shattered glass, and silver body panels.

_Oh, God—no…._

He grabbed the nearest firefighter, spinning him around until they both faced the wreckage.

"The man driving that car," Ed demanded. "Is he—?"

The firefighter brushed him aside. "No comment."

Ed grabbed him again. Unhitching his shield from his belt, he thrust it into the man's face.

"He's my partner. Now, is he—?"

The firefighter examined the shield then he looked Ed square in the eye.

"When we took him outta there," he said, "he was alive. Not in good shape, but alive. They're taking him to Mercy."

Ed glanced back the twisted remains of Joe's SL.

_Alive? Out of that? _

He turned back to the firefighter.

"What happened?"

The firefighter pointed back the way Ed had run.

"Talk to the sergeant over there," he said. "We pry things apart and spray water on hot stuff. Crime investigation—that's your bailiwick."

"Crime invest—? This was deliberate?"

"Better believe it. They got the driver in the bus over there."

Ed spun on his heel and sprinted for the ambulance, calling his thanks back to the firefighter as he ran.

At the bus, a paramedic was completing a nasal bandage for a thickset man in his forties who was sitting in the rear of the bus. His hands were cuffed behind his back and, above the gauze, both of his eyes were bruised and swollen. Two patrol officers flanked the paramedic to guard the injured man.

Ed halted next to the older of the two officers.

"This the driver?" he asked.

The officer looked at Ed's shield then launched into a rundown of events.

"Yeah. Looks like he attempted vehicular homicide on some rich guy—probably drug-related. Paramedics took two handguns off him and he was wearing a vest. Couple of bystanders dragged this guy out of his truck and detained him until we arrived on the scene. "

Ed listened, his gaze never leaving the injured suspect.

_You better be damned glad I'm not alone with you…._

"That 'rich guy' is my partner," he told the officer. "Don't be telling people this is drug-related."

"Your partner?"'

Green turned to find Sergeant Raitt now standing beside him. In his hand, Raitt held a clear plastic bag by its zippered top. Inside were two handguns, one a snub-nosed .38 revolver, the other still in its leather ankle holster. Both were smeared with blood.

A sudden wave of nausea hit Ed. He clamped his jaw shut and fought to keep from vomiting. The sergeant saw his distress and flagged a paramedic, ordering him to bring an opaque plastic bag. He then told the officer speaking with Green to get back to his suspect.

"Sorry, Green," he said. "I didn't know. Central has your partner as Nina Cassady."

Ed gulped hard before replying, "She's temporary."

The paramedic brought Raitt a red biohazard bag. The sergeant slid the evidence bag into it before he returned his attention to Green.

"I heard about Fontana. He got a raw deal. These guns registered?"

The notion that Joe would do something straightforward and by the book tinged Ed's reply with sarcasm.

"Oh, I doubt it."

The sergeant chuckled.

"Tell you what," he said as he held out the bag. "I won't mention them in my report if you make them disappear."

Ed smiled his relief and his thanks as he gingerly took the bag. Raitt hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

"Those two men back there, the ones who apprehended the driver—what about them?"

"The one in the jacket is Wainwright," Ed told him. "I don't know the other one's name. They work for Praesidium Services, a security company. Joe's fiancée insisted he hire them because he was getting threats."

Raitt considered his answer before nodding.

"Okay, that matches their story. I'll take them to the precinct for their statements. Everything they did was kosher so there shouldn't be any problems. What do you know about the driver?"

Ed refused to look again at the driver.

_That's Joe's blood in this bag… he put it there… I see him again, I'll hurt him and no one's gonna stop me…._

He felt the shakes start to take him, and knew the adrenaline rush from seeing the wreckage had run out, leaving Ed frayed and wobbly.

"Ask him about Janez Golja," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "He's a Slovenian tied to mob activity in the Bronx. Joe collared him for killing some Dominicans who boosted a truck he owned."

The sergeant wrote the info in his notepad.

"I'll pass that on to the detectives. Sykes!"

At his call, a officer came over to the sergeant."

"Give Green here a ride to Mercy," Raitt told him. To Ed, he said, "Thanks for the help. Your partner's in my prayers."

The kind words robbed Ed of the last of his composure. With his mouth too dry to speak, he nodded in gratitude to the sergeant before forcing himself to follow Sykes to his RMP.

_Go to the hospital… find out if Joe made it there alive… find out how bad off he is… call Judith… tell her—tell her… God, I hope I can tell her Joe's okay…. _


	9. Consequences, Intended & Otherwise: one

A/N: the "magazine" mentioned below is the type that holds ammunition for a semi-automatic firearm

New York's Strongest: the city's sanitation workers

_binbin_: Derogatory Dominican slang for penis (and a proper name in much of Asia)

Sixteenth Precinct  
Sixth Floor Hall  
2 August (Monday)

The moment the elevator doors began to part on the sixth floor, Elliot squeezed through them. He turned left then bolted for the men's room.

_That stain is still damp—sort of... if I get water on it soon, it should come out… at least, that's what Kathy says… now I wish I'd made coffee and not grabbed a can of cola for breakfast… Kathy says the sugar in the soda will make it worse…._

Calling home for stain advice was more of an excuse to talk to his wife than anything.

_Yesterday was a lot of fun… I took Kathy and the twins up to Bear Mountain State Park for the day… both Richard and Elizabeth griped like hell on the trip up—it won't be fun, they told me and they'd rather be with their friends... once we got there and we let them loose, they had a great time… so did Kathy and I... we walked... looked at the zoo animals together... rode the merry-go-round together... she told me about her job... I told her what was going on at work... she thinks I should accept Cragen's apology... have to admit, not being lead detective is giving me the time I need to work on my marriage—see Dr. Jackson, spend more time with Kathy and the kids… but Cragen telling me I was disloyal and didn't trust him… how was I supposed to know he was conning Sullivan? Getting blamed for buying his act when the Chief of Ops also bought it is wrong, and I've having trouble getting past it… even though I know I should…._

Elliot arrived at the restroom, which brought stain removal back to mind.

_I should have stashed a spare shirt in my locker... Kathy always made sure I had one...._

As he reached out to push the door, it swung toward him and Lt. Crenshaw and Det. Bud Culvers from Robbery emerged. Both men, in unison, jerked away from him then they glanced into the restroom before hurrying away as though either it or Elliot carried the plague.

_It can't be me—I just got here... must be someone I work with... smelly morning dumps courtesy of SVU?_

Inside, it became apparent that the problem was not odoriferous bodily functions.

_John… at the sink… wearing gloves… a Sig Sauer P232 on the shelf above the sink… a biohazard bag in the sink next to him… looks like he's drying a magazine… not normal behavior, even for John…._

"John," he asked, trying to sound nonchalant about the older man's actions, "are you cleaning your gun in the sink?"

Munch did not look up.

"I tried the urinal, but I'm too tall; it made my back ache."

John placed the magazine by its firearm then he dropped the paper towel he had been using into the biohazard bag. The calm manner with which he worked piqued Elliot's curiosity. Heedless of the brown blotch drying on his shirt and tie, he walked over to peer into the sink.

_Those water drops look a bit pinkish…._

Curiosity turned to fear when John pulled a snub-nosed revolver from the biohazard bag, and snapped open its cylinder, shaking its load into the sink by the bag.

_That's dried blood… whose? Loudoun? Fin?_

"John—what the hell?"

The cartridges rattled on the porcelain of the sink while John looked at Elliot with a hollow-eyed stare.

"These are Fontana's. I'm cleaning them so his partner doesn't have to."

Elliot's attention jerked back to the revolver.

"What happened? He get shot?"

John began dabbing at the flutes of the open cylinder while he told Elliot about the vehicular homicide attempt and the subsequent arrest of Jožef Golja, a nephew of Janez Golja.

_A Dodge Ram versus Fontana's SL? Fontana's lucky to be alive…._

"How is he? What's the prognosis?" Stabler asked.

"Well, assuming Joe doesn't succumb to MRSA or coagulase-negative staphylococci or enterococci or some other hospital-acquired infection, and if he isn't the victim of one of the almost two hundred thousand preventable medical errors that occur in hospitals each year—"

Elliot grabbed John by the upper arm.

"Munch, just answer the question."

John peered down his nose at the hand clutching his arm. After Elliot took the hint and let go, John grabbed another paper towel and thoroughly rubbed the revolver dry as he answered.

"He has three fractured vertebrae, a fractured pelvis, left arm broken in two places, cracked ribs, and chest trauma including pulmonary contusions and cardiac tamponade."

John put the revolver on the shelf by the Sig then held up his left hand with his ring and pinky fingers extended.

"He also lost these two fingers when the side air bags deployed. Small price, in my opinion, for being alive."

Elliot shuddered then hoped Fontana was right-handed.

_No sense fighting to get his job back if he can't hold his service pistol...._

"Could they reattach them?"

John shook his head as he fished the cartridges from the sink next to him and gave them a wipe before slipping them and the magazine into a small evidence bag from his jacket pocket.

"According to Otten, they spent most of last night getting Joe stable and repairing the life-threatening injuries, including a temporary external fixation to keep his pelvis intact."

"A what?"

"Steel pins, clamps, and rods that keep everything in place until he is stable enough for another operation. If I recall correctly, they hope to operate early next week. The procedure is called an ORIF..."

John removed the latex gloves and dropped them into the red bag at his feet as he recited the definition.

"... open reduction and internal fixation of a complex comminuted fracture of the left acetabulum, hemipelvis and pubic symphysis. Do you want me to explain any of that for you?"

Elliot shuddered again. "No, I'm happier not thinking about what's inside my skin. How'd you get the guns?"

John bent over to get the biohazard bag. He carefully tied its mouth shut then, with a wry grin, he tossed it into the waste basket.

"A present for New York's Strongest," he told Elliot. "As to the firearms, I went by the hospital on my way in. Ed was looking a bit green, so to speak, so I said I'd take care of them. I learned a long time ago how hard it is to clean up your own partner's blood. However, my good deed has left me with a dilemma."

"How so?"

John pointed at the two handguns and the bag of ammo on the shelf above the sink.

"I hate firearms. I know they are an essential tool of the job, and I would not want to hit the streets without mine, but I hate the thought of them in untrained, unsanctioned hands. Too many people are killed and too many lives are ruined by handguns for me to ever like them."

He picked up the snub-nosed .38 by its grip, holding it with the tips of his thumb and forefinger.

"Take this one. Fontana was required to surrender any and all firearms in his possession when they took his shield—no police are allowed to possess firearms if they're dishonorably discharged from the department. The fact that Fontana was carrying these proves they are illegal. I should turn both guns over to Cragen for disposal. If I do that, Joe gets charged with a Sullivan violation."

"Which means time upstate," Elliot said. "I see your problem."

John peered over his lenses at Stabler.

"Probably not. You see, according to his partner, Fontana was carrying because he had gotten death threats—threats he would not have received had he not been canned. If I do the right thing and—"

Elliot held up his hand palm out.

"Wait a minute—death threats?"

John repeated what he had learned from Green about the letters and phone calls Fontana had received.

"We all have our 'fans'," John said. "With Fontana off the force and not allowed to carry, he is an easy target, which brings me back to my problem. If I dispose of these handguns, I leave Joe unprotected and I can't do that to a fellow police. However, if I give them back, I'm sanctioning the possession of illegal firearms, and I can't do that either."

Elliot held out his hand. "Then give them to me. I'll see they get back to Fontana. You can claim you knew nothing about it."

"No, I can't," John replied. "You just told me what you planned to do. How can I deny knowing something I know?"

Elliot blew out a deep breath and wished his morning caffeine had not been absorbed by his shirt.

_It's too early for philosophy crap like this…._

"How about," he suggested, "I take them into Cragen and let him decide how to handle it. You can say whatever you want to Fontana if he asks what happened."

John slumped his shoulders and assumed an expression of extreme sorrow.

" 'I'm sorry, Joe. Stabler caught me cleaning your guns and he told me to hand them over. You know what a brute he is. There wasn't anything I could do.' "

He then grinned at Elliot. "That works for me. See you in the squad."

Before Elliot could protest, John had stepped around him and was at the door. There, he paused and pointed at Elliot's mid-section.

"You really should get some water on that stain."

The door swung shut while Elliot checked his watch.

_7:57… I got three minutes… thanks, Munch… I was hoping to choose when I would face Cragen… now, 'when' is right after I get rid of this soda stain…._

He turned the faucet on then cupped his hands to splash water on his tie and shirt. After a quick blot with a wad of paper towels, Elliot grabbed the P232 and the bag of ammo in one hand, the revolver in his other, carrying both with their muzzles pointed at the floor.

As soon as he entered the squadroom, he became the focus of everyone's attention. Fin started the comment stream.

"Looks like Stabler's gunning for a man with a fire hose."

The soaking wet fabric adhering to his chest felt even more soggy under Fin's notice. Lake pointed at the handguns Elliot held in each hand.

"You're supposed to bring enough to share," he told Elliot.

Donna pretended to be on the verge of a temper tantrum.

"But you promised me a pink one," she said, her voice pitched high and whiny. "I wanna pink one."

Couch made retching noises, sounds Elliot presumed were from the thought of a pink .38 Special.

_Unless he thinks I was cleaning vomit off my shirt…._

Munch leaned back in his chair, content to only grin at Stabler's appearance. As Elliot walked past her desk, Olivia folded her arms across her chest and glared up at him.

"I don't care what you brought me, Stabler," she said, "I'm not doing your paperwork."

He jerked his chin toward the office door.

"Very funny. Could you get the door for me?"

Olivia left her chair to stand next to her partner.

"Sure," she said, "but, if you're bribing Cragen, you'd do better to be discreet. How about a doughnut box to hide those in?"

"Ha, ha, ha. Just open the door."

Captain Cragen was on the phone listening to Tullia tell how Councilman Baker's wife had tried to fix her up with a family friend when Elliot came into his office.

_Those can't be from a suspect—Elliot would have had vouchered them downstairs…._

He waved his detective to a side chair, an offer Elliot ignored.

"Sorry," he told Tullia, "I have to go now—something just came up. Call you this afternoon? Okay… 'bye."

As he hung up the phone, he pointed at the firearms and asked Elliot if Java Jones was doing a 'Buy a latte—get a handgun' promotion.

_Not much of a joke, but it beats asking if he's about to shoot me...._

"No, sir," Elliot replied. "You heard about Fontana?"

Cragen nodded.

_Judith called me at home while I was getting breakfast… she told me the news and asked for the day off to be with him… of course, I said 'yes'… partly to win her over, partly because she'd been up all night worrying…._

Elliot held out the handguns by their grips.

"Fontana was carrying these last night. John got them from Ed Green, and he doesn't think it's right to give them back."

Cragen nodded again.

_That sounds like John… I'm surprised he didn't march in to demand they be destroyed, even after telling me to screw myself on Friday… he's right about it, but I can't blame Fontana… Judith told me about the threats…._

"Put them on my desk," he told Elliot, "and I'll hold them until One P.P. returns Fontana's shield. He tracked down Fred and Tammy's killer. We owe him one for that."

_That's assuming Fontana wins his appeal… boy, I'd like to see him wipe the floor with First Dep Balzano… then he should tie this murder attempt to his termination and sue the pants off Tony in civil court..._

He watched Elliot set the firearms and the plastic bag on the corner of his desk. To his surprise, the detective took a half-step back from the desk then straightened with his weight on his toes.

_Looks like I'm about to find out where I stand with Elliot… I spent the weekend worrying how things would be today—if Olivia would be the only one to believe me… if I'd find a message from Branch asking me to resign… not to mention wondering what happens if Beale figures out I know what he's trying to do…._

Again, he clamped down on that train of thought, grateful that Stabler chose that moment to speak up.

"Sir, I thought about what you said Friday."

Unsure what might be coming, Cragen nodded.

"I want to tell you," Elliot told him, "I'm glad you made Olivia lead. You probably don't know it, but Kathy and I are seeing a marriage counselor; we're trying to put everything back the way it should be. Now that I'm out from under all the paperwork and other crap, I can see how much of my time it was taking and how it was affecting me. I have to say thanks for that."

Before Cragen could reply, Elliot said, "And I have to admit I was disobeying orders when I let the team guess what Operation Chestnut was about."

Elliot stiffened as he come to attention. Cragen saw no signs of anger; Elliot wasn't snarling or gritting his teeth.

_But that's one intense glare… whatever is coming next, he means it…._

"But, sir, I wasn't being disrespectful when I thought you were selling us out to Sullivan. I figured you had a plan even when you were lapping up Sullivan's spit like it was ice cream. I didn't lose faith until after he told us Verbeck was backing him. How could I believe you when you were cringing in front of him like a whipped puppy? Hell, you did everything but piddle."

Cragen leaned back in his chair, too surprised to respond.

_A whipped puppy—that's exactly what I was trying for… but piddle? The Marines ought to retract your honorable discharge for using such language...._

Across the desk, Elliot's mouth twisted as he realized how silly the word sounded coming from his lips. The twitch spread until it was a full-fledged sheepish grin.

"Elliot," Cragen told him in a voice that just missed being stern, "somewhere, a drill instructor is crying."

_I know my drill sergeant would have crawled up my butt if I'd said 'piddle'…._

He watched Stabler grin even wider.

"Kathy and the twins spent the weekend making me clean up my language. I guess I've gotten sloppy. Their influence must have carried over to today."

He stopped long enough to snicker.

"But you're right. 'Piddle' is taking it too far."

"Don't worry. I won't mention it to John or Fin—"

Cragen paused for effect.

"…or Olivia."

Elliot winced.

_No doubt thinking what his partner would say about Tough-Guy Stabler's choice of words… knowing Liv, she'd spend the rest of the shift using baby-talk on him…._

Judging from what Elliot said next, Cragen knew they both had Benson pegged.

"I don't need Liv asking if I need to go piddle in the widdle boys' room."

Cragen chuckled again, a laugh Elliot joined. Before their shared good will could dissipate, the captain got to his feet and walked around the desk to stand by his detective.

_Now, maybe I can put this to rest for good…._

"Elliot," he said, "I was wrong to blame you for not following my lead with Sullivan—not if you thought I was heading over a cliff like a suicidal lemming."

"It's okay, Cap. I should have known you were putting on an act; I'd just seen you perform like a Oscar winner."

For a moment, Cragen thought he meant the fight in the warehouse with Lau earlier that day.

_No acting there—I really was trying to hurt him...._

But Stabler's use of 'perform' and his wry smile set Cragen right.

_He means the alley behind Martina's German Restaurant... Otten and me... Tucker gave us a 10.0...._

A flush of embarrassment warmed his face.

"Don't mention that again," he told Elliot, "ever."

"Gotcha, Cap. Consider it forgotten."

The two men eyed each other. Cragen saw that Elliot was still smiling, but....

_There's uncertainty in the way he's standing, the way his head is tipped... he's willing to take me at my word, but only if I keep walking the walk... show I mean it...._

He could not think of a way to say he meant it without sounding weak so Cragen simply nodded.

_Now, to get back to business...._

"Anything new on the McLuhan case?" he asked.

Elliot accepted the change in subject by losing the smile.

"Olivia and I talked to Jenny and her mother yesterday afternoon. Mrs. McLuhan is certain the doer was her cousin Torry, but Jenny won't ID him. From the way she reacts when we show her his photo, it has to be him, but Jenny is still too traumatized and scared to indicate that he's our guy."

_Susan McLuhan was at the Women's Forum last week... she came in Friday afternoon and told me her kindergartner was acting like the little boy in my example... she's the second parent to come here because of my talk at the Forum... Chester and Loudoun are working the first case...._

"Child Protective Services is arranging a therapist for Jenny," Elliot continued. "Maybe that will help."

"Without DNA or other forensics," Cragen told him, "we'll need that ID. Have you spoken to other family members?"

Elliot snorted his disgust. "Torry McLuhan is the salt of the earth. No way would he do anything nasty to a little girl."

Cragen bit back a sarcastic reply.

_Typical... who wants to admit those close to you are monsters?_

The memory of Andrew Beale's hand clasping his arm while Beale cheered an inning-ending catch at the ball park made Cragen flinch. To cover his flinch, he quickly shook his head then reminded Elliot to keep working with Jenny McLuhan.

"We'll do our best," Elliot replied. "Anything else?"

"Nope, that should do it."

Elliot held his gaze a second longer then left the office.

_That's him and Olivia, Lake and Loudoun—all willing to either let bygones be bygones or to give me another chance... I should stop by Mercy General after lunch with the contract team... see how Fontana is and how Judith is holding up... show I really mean what I said...._

Intensive Care Unit  
Mercy General Hospital  
W. 31st Street  
2 August

Anita Van Buren exited the elevator at the fourth floor.

_Wish I didn't know the way to ICU so well... take a left... through the main doors, head past the waiting room and lounge... turn right and follow the hall until I reach room #4..._

She had shuffled her morning schedule to squeeze in a visit with Fontana.

_Ed looked beat when he came in for his shift... he said Fontana was in surgery for much of last night... and he was still out of it when Ed left him, but he was expected to be awake sometime this morning... he also said Judith was with him and that Munch from SVU had stopped by... he also said Fontana's brother was flying in today... family's a good thing in times like this...._

Mercy General's management had put big bucks into the design and décor of their intensive care unit. The patient rooms were arranged in a long oval around two nurses' stations, each with low partitions to give a unobstructed view into every room in its half of the oval. Sliding glass doors into the patient rooms allowed access and direct line-of-sight of each bed and its monitoring equipment. Diffuse lighting and warm colors for furniture, wall treatments, and art lessened the institutional feel of the common areas. The patient rooms were done in soothing greens and beiges with upholstered chairs, large TV screens that doubled as electronic "windows," and a toilet and sink behind a full-length partition, all meant to make patients and visitors more comfortable.

Van Buren, having been there too often to visit injured officers or to question suspects, paid no attention to her surroundings.

_I know they tried, but it still looks and sounds and smells like a hospital... there's the officer Ed said was guarding Fontana... it was good of Donnie Cragen to set that up... he beat me to it, but Mercy is in his precinct...._

Room #4 was a corner room, which meant the area it presented to the nurses' station was narrower than that of the other rooms. To compensate for the decreased observable space, the designers had positioned the bed in the center of the room and used an automatic glass door that swung open into the room. This meant the officer watching the door, a young man with three commendation bars under his badge, was standing just beyond the room, his back to the glass of room #5. In response to his questioning stare, Van Buren showed him her shield and introduced herself before looking in at Fontana.

_Oh, Lord.…_

Fontana was on his back, feet in line with the door, wearing nothing but a pale green sheet over his legs. Stainless steel emerged from his hips to arch over his groin, preventing a more modest drape of his coverings. His skin was mottled purple and red where it wasn't stained with antiseptics, and a cast covered his left arm from shoulder to wrist with gauze covering his hand. Clear plastic tubing ran into his right arm and crotch with another tube stuck between two ribs on his left side, A large blue tube had been inserted into his mouth; it was connected to a ventilator by the bed. Behind the tape holding that tube in place, Fontana's face was slack, his eyes closed, deep in a drugged sleep despite the sounds of beeps and whooshing from the medical equipment.

Van Buren took a careful look at the monitors set behind the bed.

_He may look dead, but his heartbeat and BP aren't bad... Ed said the ventilator was there because of Fontana's chest injuries... it assists his breathing until they're sure all the fluids have drained from his chest... that's what the tube between his ribs is for—drainage... I count four IV bags, a urine bag, a bag for that chest drain... probably a good thing he's out of it...._

Her gaze was drawn to the rods protruding from Fontana's lower abdomen, one rod coming from the top of his right hip, the other entering the side of his left hip. Stainless steel braces and rods connected them, making it look like a shiny Erector set bridge had been built over him.

_If I woke up and saw that sticking out of me, I'd scream bloody murder...._

_" _'cuse me_, por favor."_

The heavily accented voice came from her left, where an orderly in green scrubs was attempting to push a canvas laundry cart heaped with soiled sheets and bedding down the hall. Van Buren stepped out of his way so the orderly could maneuver his cart behind her. When he had passed, the lieutenant turned her attention back to the hospital room.

_I don't see anyone with him... I thought Ed said that Judith woman was staying with him...._

She turned to the officer to ask if he knew why the love of Fontana's life wasn't there with her man. To her annoyance, the officer was up on his toes with his attention fixed on something behind her.

_Look here, Officer...._

She read his name tag.

_... Charles, you may be on guard duty, but you're also supposed to be aware of any and all superiors present... I shouldn't have to snap my fingers and wake you from a trance if I need you...._

She drew a deep breath so she could remind the officer of his responsibilities but, before she could speak, Charles jerked his head toward her.

"Lieutenant," he said, "I think we have a situation."

"How so?"

"I'm watching everyone who comes by here—nurses, doctors, patients—everyone. When that orderly came down the hall, he was looking straight ahead. This room—"

Officer Charles hooked a thumb at Fontana's room.

"... is the only one he looked into and, when he twisted his body to push his cart around you, I think I saw the print of a semi-auto under his shirt."

Van Buren shifted her stance so she could see down the hall without looking directly in that direction.

_I can't tell from here...._

"You wait here," she told Charles.

She walked over to the nurses' station, where three nurses were working . Van Buren beckoned to the one with the most acronyms on her name tag.

"I'm Lt. Van Buren, NYPD. Is it normal for orderlies to be picking up dirty laundry at this hour?"

The head nurse shook her head.

"No, not at all. Hector usually comes by around ten-thirty. That guy who went by just now must be new."

Another nurse added, "And lost. I'll bet Burns or Neo-natal is on the horn to Facilities asking where their pickup is."

Van Buren turned back to Officer Charles.

"Where is he now?" she asked.

Charles tipped his head in the direction the orderly had gone.

"He just rounded the corner by the other nurses' station," he replied.

The lieutenant gritted her teeth as she considered the situation.

_Ed told me Fontana thinks more people are gunning for him... he's a perfect target—immobile and helpless... no good reason for an orderly to be carrying... if he's making his way around ICU, he'll be back here in just a couple minutes... no time to call for backup or even get hospital security up here...._

"Charles, where's Detective Otten—the woman who was sitting with Fontana?"

_If she's close by, maybe in the restroom, I sure can use her...._

Officer Charles replied that Otten had gone downstairs for breakfast.

"I have her cell number," the nurse told Van Buren, "just in case."

Curiosity as to what else could happen to Fontana tempted her to ask, but the imminent threat forced Van Buren to concentrate on the short list of options left open to her.

_That's why I've got the LT's shield... it comes down to me...._

"All right," she told the nurse, "get her on the phone for me then I want you and the other nurses to make yourselves scarce. This could get ugly."

All three nurses started to protest, but Van Buren held up her hand to silence them.

"Don't argue. If you want to stay out of sight behind the counter here, that's fine with me. While you're down there, call Security and tell them I need them to get here quietly and to stay out of my way."

She turned to Charles.

"I want you in Fontana's room. That partition should give you enough cover. You back me up from there."

Charles nodded. He drew his weapon then headed into Fontana's room as the nurse handed Van Buren a phone receiver. The lieutenant took it from her, but did not give Otten a chance to speak.

"This is Lt. Van Buren. I need you back in ICU; there may be an attempt on Fontana. Suspect is an Hispanic male in orderly scrubs pushing a laundry cart. Officer Charles is in the room; I'll be at the nurses' station. See me before engaging. Got it?"

Upon Otten's "Yes, ma'am," Van Buren handed the phone back to the nurse just as the orderly and his cart rounded the far end of the nurses' station.

_Damn... Otten won't get here in time... this guy better be a confused new hire who missed the "Gun Free Zone" signs...._

Van Buren moved behind the counter, and took up a position where she could see into Fontana's room.

_Now, to look like I belong here...._

She grabbed a clipboard from the counter and pretended to be intently interested in the papers attached to it. Using it and the counter as cover, she slid her shield from her pocket and attached it to the waistband of her slacks then she unfastened the strap on her holster. The head nurse waved to the other two nurses then the three of them ducked down by a file drawer as though they were searching for a missing form.

_Here he comes... Charles was right—he's not looking into any of the patient rooms... just staring straight ahead...going past room #7.. #6... #5... he's starting to round the corner...._

She kept her head down, her nose pointed at the clipboard, her eyes on the orderly.

_Make the turn... keep going... don't be what I fear you are...._

With a hard shove to the right corner of the cart, the orderly pushed it into room #4. Van Buren drew her weapon and moved around the counter, taking care to keep out of the orderly's peripheral vision.

_No sense in spooking him before I'm in place...._

She stopped outside the open door then peered into the room. Inside, the orderly had left his cart at the foot of the bed. Van Buren saw him by Fontana's left shoulder, staring down at the unconscious man.

_Just stare ... just stare for a second or two, then grab some dirty linen and leave... don't make no trouble... don't reach for your waistband...._

The suspect did not hear Van Buren's thoughts. Instead, she saw a smile spread across his lips.

"You gonna die with your _binbin _showing," he said. "Chief will laugh at that."

She heard the _snap_ of latex on skin then his right hand, now encased in a surgical glove, reached behind his back to lift the hem of his shirt, exposing a matte black small-frame semi-auto.

_I make it a head shot... there's no sensors monitoring brain activity so a bullet to the skull should give him time to get away... this guy's a pro...._

The moment the weapon cleared the orderly's waistband, Van Buren swung into the room, her weapon aimed at the orderly.

"NYPD," she shouted. "Drop it—drop it right now!"

The suspect froze with his hand and weapon still behind his back just as Charles bolted from the toilet area. He crossed the room to the bed opposite the suspect, his Glock held in a two-hand grip. The orderly jerked his head to face Charles before glancing at Van Buren. He then raised his left hand over his head and made a slow half-squat so he could place his weapon on the floor.

Van Buren hurried over to kick it away from him.

"Down on the floor," she ordered, "now!"

The suspect complied by lying prone beside the bed. Van Buren kept her weapon pointed at him while Charles cuffed him and went through his pockets, handing the contents to Van Buren.

_A wallet with two hundred dollars in twenties and a DL—Erasmo Selman from Staten Island... folded piece of notebook paper with the hospital name and "Fontana, Joseph—ICU" written on it... if someone knew this quickly that Fontana was here, then someone has been keeping very close tabs on him... put that with this guy's comment about "Chief" and...._

Van Buren crouched down by the suspect.

"Did Dominick Anacasis send you to kill Fontana?"

The orderly twisted his neck so he could look up at her. His expression showed no sign of anger or fear.

"Lawyer," he said then he turned his head away.

Van Buren placed a hand on the frame of Fontana's bed and pulled herself upright, noting as she did that Fontana's eyes remained closed and his heartbeat steady.

_Don't know how he slept through all this...._

Charles had the orderly on his feet by the time hospital security arrived with Otten close on her heels. Van Buren asked the guards to accompany Charles and the suspect to a secure place until the One-Six could send a car for them.

_Charles gets the collar... after all, he spotted the threat...._

When the orderly was taken care of, Van Buren turned to Detective Otten. Although the woman had dressed for duty in a mauve blouse and taupe pants suit, she noted that Otten had made no effort to hide the signs of stress and exhaustion on her face.

_Came here in a hurry last night, grabbing the important stuff and skipping the make-up... I thought you'd be younger, taller, chestier... you're my age, shorter, and got nothing to boast about...._

She glanced at the array of monitors behind Fontana's bed.

_Maybe those doctors should be checking his brain... and hers...._

She filled the detective in on the situation, noting that, although she listened carefully, Otten never took her gaze from the man in the hospital bed.

"I have to go oversee the investigation," Van Buren told the back of Otten's head. "From what that fake orderly said, I think he's tied to the Jason Meade case, and that one is ours."

Otten's attention snapped back to the lieutenant. "You mean Anacasis? He didn't make any threats."

Van Buren thought back to his interrogation at the Sixty-First Precinct.

_Yes, he did... Anacasis promised to kill the man who killed his 'Little Man'... I guess Ed didn't mention that to his partner...._

"Who else has made threats?"

Otten named several people then added, "But Joe thought only Golja's and Crespo's threats were credible. He said the rest were just making noise."

"I'll get the One-Six to send over two officers each shift," Van Buren replied. "That way, this room will be covered at all times. Until they get here, I want you guarding him."

Otten agreed then she said, "Two attempts in twelve hours. Too many people have it in for Joe...."

She let her sentence trail off. Van Buren nodded in agreement.

_Seems like everything Fontana has is bigger and flashier—even his enemies list... Anacasis wanting revenge... skels he arrested... everyone from drug dealers to—_

A memory interrupted her thinking.

_Emil Skoda… telling me the Manhattan and Bronx District Attorneys were interested in Fontana's shooting review… but neither DA was represented at that hearing… the shock of seeing Fontana terminated drove Skoda's words completely from my mind… do his enemies really run the gamut from drug dealers to—_

"District Attorneys."

Otten turned a puzzled stare at the lieutenant.

"What?"

Van Buren leaned close to the detective then spoke in a whisper.

"Did you know Arthur Branch and the Bronx DA asked for and received copies of Fontana's psych evaluation, the one done for his shooting review?"

At Van Buren's mention of the Bronx DA, Otten looked as though she wanted to spit.

"No, I didn't," she replied. "Why would they want that?"

"Good question, but I know it for a fact. Dr. Skoda told me himself the day before the hearing."

Otten went pale.

"Are you saying Branch and Martinez leaned on Balzano to get rid of Joe?"

"It sure sounds like it to me."

Van Buren's cell phone rang. The caller ID showed it was the Borough Duty Commander.

_Of course... this is a inter-precinct case... I have to coordinate with him...._

"I have to take this," she told Otten. "You watch Fontana and I'll let you know what happens."

_And then I need to talk to Ed... tell him about this second attempt on his partner... and how none of this would be happening if district attorneys didn't meddle in our affairs... someone needs to straighten them out... show them they can't put my people in danger like this...._


	10. Consequences, Intended & Otherwise: two

The Bronx DA's office is on E. 161st Street  
_  
_Regina Mulroney was in the SVU episode "Entitled: Part One & Two", a cross-over with L&O. Munch was the only one to comprehend that she and her lawyer had arranged a second murder to cover up her daughter's killing of an old boyfriend.  
_  
_For this AU, which is set in 2007, it's assumed that Captain Cragen became sober eighteen years ago (before taking command of Manhattan Homicide,) and that Marge died ten years ago (before he took command of Manhattan SVU.)

Manhattan Homicide  
Sixteenth Precinct  
3 August (Tuesday)

Alex Borgia was aware that some found her attractive. It wasn't a opinion she shared; she thought her nose was too big, her voice too low, her eyebrows too heavy, and her hair, despite the attention she gave it, never did what she wanted. So, when she walked past the squadroom and every detective and officer in the room stopped their work to stare at her, she assumed a pigeon had crapped on her. A quick pat of her hair found nothing liquid, and a fast check of her jacket's shoulders proved the assumption wrong.

_Maybe everyone is really, really bored…._

Harder to ignore were the growls and mutters than followed her as she walked to the interrogation room. The detectives were barely polite to her as she observed their questioning of Adrian Washington, the suspect in the Stephan Ehrlich shooting. When she approved Washington's arrest, neither bothered to say anything to her; they merely turned their backs and walked away.

_I don't understand… the last homicide case from this unit resulted in a conviction and the current ones are going well... they can't be mad at me…._

Alex cut through the squadroom to see if anyone could give her a head's up as to the problem.

_Surely Ed Green isn't mad at me... he's too nice a guy...._

The ice-cold glare Green gave her as she approached desk proved that assumption wrong, too.

"Hey, Ed," she greeted him, hoping a friendly word might lighten his mood. "What's going on here?"

"I think you know," he replied, the anger in his voice and his flat stare warning her that, whatever it was, he was taking it personally.

_Last time I saw him this angry, I had just told him about Anacacis getting immunity for Jason Meade… but that was three weeks ago...._

"No, Ed," she said, "I don't."

She glanced at the female detective seated across from Green, hoping she might explain, but Cassady's expression was no less fierce.

_Fontana always smiled before growling at me… guy was a little creepy that way…._

"How about you explaining it to me?"

Green çurled his lip at her.

"Go talk to the Lieu," he replied. "I ain't got time for the likes of you."

Alex backed away from Ed's desk. Another glance at his partner showed her to be staring at her paperwork, ignoring Alex's fervent wish to see one friendly face.

_Okay, so it really is me… let's see what Van Buren has to say about this…._

The short walk to the lieutenant's office felt miles long. Alex kept her expression calm, but the feeling of having a target on her back did nothing to ease her concern. Through the glass, she saw Van Buren watching her with the same angry intensity as Green.

_Try to look unaffected... remember, we're all on the same side…._

" 'Morning, Lieutenant" Alex said as she entered the office. "How is everything?"

Van Buren rose to her feet and folded her arms across her chest. Alex let out a long sigh.

"I get the idea that some thing's wrong. Mind telling me what it is?"

She saw Van Buren shake her head slightly.

_It's like she thinks I'm stupid, but I truly haven't a clue…._

Finally, the lieutenant spoke, her voice flat and harsh.

"You know about Fontana?"

Alex nodded. "I heard he was badly injured, but he'll be okay."

Van Buren rolled her eyes as though Alex was too ignorant to live.

"We're talking two attempted murders here," she snapped at the ADA. "Yesterday morning, a hit man sent by Dominick Anacacis went to Fontana's hospital room to put a .22 magnum in his head."

Alex gaped at the older woman.

"You're kidding, right?"

Van Buren aimed a forefinger at Alex's sternum.

"Oh, not at all, young lady. None of this would have happened if the DA's office hadn't butted in—"

"Wait a minute."

Alex dropped her briefcase on a chair and put both her hands on her hips.

_I've had enough of this…._

"Butted in where?" she demanded.

Van Buren hurried around her desk and stopped not six inches from Alex's toes. She glared up at her, so close that Alex could see her lips tremble with rage.

"My detective's shooting review."

Alex took a step back and dropped her arms from her hips in surprise.

"His shooting review? Why would anyone at the DA's office care about his shooting review?

Van Buren drew herself up to her full height.

_Wow... I didn't think she could get any angrier...._

"Because," Van Buren told Alex, her voice laden with scorn, "you people don't like the way Fontana works his cases so you put the screws to the First Deputy Commissioner, and you got him fired."

"'Works his cases?'" Alex shot back, angered by the lack of logic in the accusation. "Fontana didn't work his cases—he worked the suspects and the witnesses until he got the results he wanted. The Dolan case, Mitch Lowell's prosecution—they both almost got thrown out of court thanks to his disregard for proper procedures."

From the corner of her eye, Alex noticed that every detective in the squad was staring at her, listening to her attack their former colleague.

_I'm making it sound like we really did sabotage that hearing… but why would we? There are easier ways to counter a rogue cop…._

"Besides, " she continued, her voice pitched to sound calmer, "we had no reason to get Fontana fired. It's easier to simply not call him as a witness. If he's not on the stand, he can't screw things up for us."

She curved her lips up in what she hoped looked like a sincere smile.

_That's not exactly true… but I need to get out of here in one piece so I can figure out how this rumor got started…._

"So," she continued, "if anyone was out to get Fontana, it wasn't us."

Van Buren narrowed her eyes to glare suspiciously at the ADA.

"That's not what Doctor Skoda said. The day before the shooting review, he told me both the Bronx and Manhattan DA's offices requested copies of his evaluation of Fontana.

Alex rocked back on her heels, away from the unexpected info.

"But, that doesn't make any sense," she told Van Buren.

"Maybe it doesn't to you," the lieutenant replied, "but it sure enough made sense to Balzano. A friend of mine working in his office told me yesterday everything was copacetic until you people demanded Balzano ditch Fontana. You called him a 'detriment to the prosecutorial process.'"

Alex blinked at the polysyllabic phrase.

_That doesn't sound like either Arthur or Jack...._

"Who made those calls?" she asked.

The lieutenant shrugged.

"People from the Bronx and Manhattan DA's offices. I don't have names."

Alex snatched her briefcase from the chair where she had dropped it.

"Then I'm going to find out who those people are and get to the bottom of this."

For the benefit of Green, who was still glaring at her from his desk, and the rest of the Homicide unit, she added, "Whatever our beefs might be with Fontana, he doesn't deserve anything close to what's happening to him."

The assurance got her out of the station house without further hassle. Once on the sidewalk, Alex hailed a cab.

_I've got to tell this to Jack... he'll know who might have it in for Fontana... and who has enough weight to make the First Deputy Commissioner pull a stunt like this...._

Office of Arthur Branch  
One Hogan Place  
3 August

Jack McCoy sat sprawled on the leather sofa in the DA's office watching Arthur Branch frown at the sheet of paper in his hand.

"Nothing learned," the DA muttered as he looked over its summary. "No evidence. Damn."

He held the paper up so Jack would know to what he referred.

"I keep reading this," he told his EADA, "but nothing changes. Everything Detectives Stabler and Benson found proves Captain Cragen is wrong about Andrew."

Jack McCoy raised an eyebrow.

"Can we be absolutely sure of that?" he asked.

Branch grimaced as though his heartburn just kicked it up a notch at the question.

"If his two best detectives don't back him up, it makes his credibility seem a mite shaky."

McCoy ignored the understatement.

"Any word yet from Dr. Olivet?"

"She told me I'd have her assessment this afternoon."

"You really going to ask Cragen to retire if Elizabeth says he's suffering from PTSD?"

"Of course. We don't need a paranoid captain leading a high-profile unit like SVU. How would you like it if one of the ADAs decided you were a pervert and a blackmailer?"

"It would be a change," McCoy told him. "Usually, they think I'm a reckless lecher."

Branch's low chuckle applauded the joke.

"Word does get around," he replied as he put the report in a desk drawer. "Now, where are we on the Kingston trial?"

Jack swung his legs from the sofa and sat up. The movement brought the outer door into his peripheral vision.

_That's Alex… waving like she needs my attention… and standing where Arthur won't see her…._

"It's been assigned to Judge Bradley," he told Branch. "We're meeting with him and Kingston's lawyer on Thursday. Do you mind if I dash out of here? I forgot about a call I need to make."

He jumped to his feet in the hope that the quick motion would make his excuse more believable.

Branch waved him off with a distracted push of his hand.

"Sure, Jack. Talk at you later."

As soon as he was out of Branch's line of sight, Alex mouthed the words "Not here" and tipped her head toward Branch's secretary. Jack followed her into the hall, but he waited until they were in the elevator before asking how Washington's interrogation went.

_That's what I sent her to do... although I can't think why she looks about to throw up... she's seen plenty of murderers questioned...._

"It went fine," she replied, but we've got other problems. I'll tell you as soon as we're outside."

Alex steered him down Centre Street to Foley Square, halting their progress only after she had checked the people around them for familiar faces. Jack listened while she recounted the angry welcome she had received from Manhattan Homicide and the accusations made by Lt. Van Buren.

"That doesn't make sense," he replied. "I'm glad Fontana will never wreck another trial for me, but I'd never ask for his firing. No one in this office would."

"I know, Jack, but Van Buren was pretty sure about her facts, and Skoda isn't the sort to make things up."

Jack pulled out his cell.

"Let's verify that one."

His call connected with Emil Skoda, who told Jack the same story Alex had heard from Van Buren.

"Do you know who it was who called you?" Jack asked him.

_"It was Martinez' secretary," Skoda replied. "I didn't catch who it was from your office, but the number on the caller ID came up as 'Dist Atty NY,' like all the calls I get from Hogan Place."_

"How did you send your report over here?"

"_I faxed it. Both callers gave me a fax number."_

"Do you still have those numbers?"

Jack heard a rustling sound followed by some faint beeps.

_Sorry, Jack. I must have thrown the note away and the fax machine's history doesn't go back that far. Is there a problem?"_

McCoy glanced at Borgia, whose worried frown echoed the concern in Skoda's question.

"Not on your end, Emil—but there is one on ours. I'll explain later."

Jack ended the call then he called another number.

"Sarah, I need to talk to Arthur... Arthur, did you request any reports from Emil Skoda with regards to Detective Joe Fontana?"

For Alex's benefit, Jack shook his head when Branch replied, _"No. Why would I do that?"_

"I'll explain when I get back to the office."

He ended the call then turned his attention to Borgia.

"Alex, why don't you ask around—see if you can quietly find out who requested that evaluation from Skoda? I'll see if Arthur will call Martinez since I know he won't give me the time of day."

Alex nodded then flashed a smile to show her agreement with Jack's assessment of the Bronx DA.

"Martinez definitely sees himself as our enemy," she said, "not a team player."

Jack agreed with a derisive snort. "Sometimes, I think the entire Bronx DA's office feels that way towards us."

Alex glanced over her shoulder as though checking for invaders from East 161st Street then she said,"Jack, do you have any idea who might want Fontana kicked off the force?"

Jack turned back toward One Hogan Place before he replied.

"No, Alex—I don't. I also don't know of anyone besides Branch with enough _oomph_ to lean on the First Deputy Commissioner. I couldn't; Balzano would laugh in my face."

"Then who—?"

Jack picked up his pace.

"I don't know, but we're going to find out."

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
3 August

Monday had been slow, but Tuesday was more than making up for it. The shift started with two attacks reported from the night before and another one from the previous Friday.

_Captain Cragen is in court so it's all on me… with John at the same trial as the captain and Elliot off today, assigning cases is going to be a pain... I gave Fin and Couch the date rape from Friday night... the two attacks that occurred early this morning—one victim called 911, one self-reported at Mercy General's emergency room—I gave to Otten and Lake, or is it Lake and Otten? Someone needs to decide who's senior in that pair… anyway, I gave them those two, since both victims will get their exams at Mercy… give Judith a chance to look in on Fontana afterward…._

Before Olivia could refill her mug, another two calls came in.

_The first was from a father worried by things his son told him about a weekend visit with his cousin... Arabic-sounding last name ... so I called Couch... he and Fin will go there when they're done interviewing their rape victim... the other call was about a preschool teacher who noticed a man watching the kids through binoculars this morning… uniforms followed up and found signs that someone had been camping out on a nearby rooftop… CSU is there now... Donna and I will take that one... another fun-filled day in Special Victims...._

Mercy General Hospital  
ICU  
3 August

Late Monday afternoon, after the ventilator and chest drain tubes had been removed and his IV drips adjusted, Joe Fontana began to wake up. Everything felt disjointed and hazy, but three things stuck with him.

_I hurt like hell... I don't know what happened... if Nick's here, it's gotta be bad...._

Given the facial swelling that had closed one eye and the dim light in the room, he couldn't see how bad it was, but it helped to hear Judith and his brother both say he would be all right.

_Judith won't lie to me... Nick won't, either... they'll take care of me...._

With that comfort, he drifted away again.

Tuesday morning, his doctors woke him so he could learn the full extent of what had happened and what was in store for him. Much of it blurred past Joe, the medical jargon made more incomprehensible by the pain killers, but what Joe did understand, shook him to the core.

_Someone tried to kill me—for real... twice... held together by steel rods... surgery is risky... blot clots... infection... some long words that mean maybe no sex and a diaper... and my hand... my fingers... no more fingers... can't wear a wedding ring... that's wrong... it's all wrong...._

It was easier to let the drugs take him back to sleep.

New York County Supreme Court  
Part 67  
3 August

Don Cragen arrived for the Jenner trial at quarter to ten a.m. as requested by Casey Novak. He took a look around the hall outside the courtroom to see who was there.

_I don't see John... Casey said she was calling him first today... he'll establish why we went after Erastais Management and how we found Henry Jenner land his fake ID listed in the company's records... I follow to explain the warrant and the arrest...._

Cragen recognized two reporters near the entry then breathed a sigh of relief that neither were Cyndy Sierens of NY8 News. A knot of older men and women stood close to them. Judging from their conversation, Cragen decided they were trial junkies. Opposite them, by the windows, Henry Jenner and his attorney, Charles Van Brocklyn, discussed something in voices too low to overhear. Jenner noticed Cragen's attention and glared back at him until his attorney took him by the elbow and led him further away.

The brief attempt at intimidation, especially from a man whose forehead barely reached Cragen's chin and who weighed maybe one-twenty soaking wet, made Cragen smile.

_Good thing Van Brocklyn didn't see that... me laughing at his client won't make him go easier on me... Casey says today is a test of the DA's willingness to try these all cases than an attempt to exonerate Jenner... a win for our side is an expensive loss for Erastais...._

Don found an empty bench and settled himself on it just as John Munch emerged from the men's room. Munch glanced around the hall, spotting Cragen but not making eye contact.

_He's ignoring me... just as well—it's better if we don't speak to each other until I've finished testifying...._

Munch walked past his CO and the courtroom door. He picked a spot out of earshot of the reporters then fished his cell phone from his pocket and made a call.

_He's not calling the house... not with that grin on his face...._

Cragen considered the notion that, at the other end of that call, someone female also had a big smile on her face.

_If so, good for him... except I don't know anything about it, which shows how far I've let things slide... and that's not good at all...._

At ten o'clock, a court officer announced the pending arrival of Judge Helen Blythe. Cragen watched Munch end his call before joining the line of people filing into the courtroom.

_Opening arguments then John... I've seen John on the stand... if a question can be answered in ten words, he'll write a dissertation... this could be a long, long wait...._

To his surprise, less than an hour passed before the court officer called his name. Cragen entered the courtroom. John, he saw, had taken a seat at the back of the courtroom, and did not look at him when he walked past.

_I need to get with John—clear the air between us... Jenner's still glaring at me... I don't like the smug smile on his lawyer's face... Casey's rolling her eyes... her way of warning me that Van Brocklyn plans to pull out all the stops... see if he can find something to make me look bad to the jury...._

Cragen responded to Casey's questions about Jenner's arrest. When she was finished, Van Brocklyn rose to pepper him with questions. First came a query about Cragen's drinking.

_Quit in 1989... only one slip since then... still attend AA meetings... jury doesn't seem to care...._

Then came several questions about Internal Affairs' investigations of his unit...

_Every one a pain in the butt, but the rats never find anything—because there is nothing to find... jury's bored by this one, too...._

Van Brocklyn followed with the recent investigation by the Commissioner into Operation Chestnut.

_I took great pleasure in telling him how we were cleared of every one of those charges except for Elliot's and Fin's slaps-on-the-wrist... most of the jurors are yawning... the trial junkies look bored out of their skulls... even the reporters have closed their notepad...._

Van Brocklyn ignored everyone's boredom as he kept his attention on Cragen.

"Captain," he said with the same smarmy smoothness with which he had asked his previous questions, "I understand you recently paid almost one hundred thousand dollars for a 1962 Jaguar XKE convertible."

At the prosecution's table, Casey's head jerked up. John straightened to full height and gaped open-mouthed at his CO. The trial junkies stopped their muttered criticism of the defense, and the two reporters flipped opened their notepads again, their pens at the ready. The jurors shook off their collective stupor, each one perked by the unexpected mention of lavish spending.

Don held his expression calm.

_He's trying to make me look dirty… or maybe make me get mad by airing my personal life... I'm not falling for this one…._

"I also know ," the attorney added, "that you've been seen dining at Breslau—a place not known for its blue plate specials."

Casey's face went pale as two jurors giggled at the understatement. Don saw John's jaw had snapped shut and the reporters had begin taking notes, but it was the mention of the three-star restaurant that froze the blood in his veins.

_He just listed two things involving Beale... don't make me talk about Beale under oath... don't... I don't have anything prepared... I'll blow it...._

"And," Van Brocklyn continued, "if I'm not mistaken, you're wearing a hand-tailored suit, a custom-made shirt, and a hand-sewn silk tie. May I say that it all looks very good on you."

The compliment, since it did not refer directly to the SVU Bureau Chief, calmed Don's fears, but it brought Casey to her feet.

"Your honor," she demanded, "is counsel admiring Captain Cragen or envying him?"

Judge Blythe scowled down at the defense attorney.

"Will there be a question sometime soon?" she asked.

Van Brocklyn nodded.

"Yes, your honor—right now."

Without noticeably moving a muscle, Don braced himself.

_Look calm... at ease... this sounds bad, but Van Brocklyn is trying to put me on the defensive... at least he didn't bring up Beale again... maybe I'm clear on that one...._

Van Brocklyn walked up to the railing that surrounded the witness stand. From the sneer on his face to the steel in his bearing, the lawyer demonstrated his disdain for the man seated before him.

"Captain Cragen," he said, "given that you spent close to ten months' pay on a used car, and that you spent close to a week's pay on one meal, and that you're wearing the equivalent of six weeks' pay—and that's not considering any undergarments we can't see...."

He paused for the same two jurors to again giggle.

"Captain, how are you managing to afford such lavish extravagance on what the city pays you?"

The overly blatant scorn with which Van Brocklyn asked his question told Cragen the lawyer already knew the answer to his questions. A glance at the jury warned him they hadn't seen through the ploy.

_Half of them are scowling at me... the man in the far corner looks ready to kill me... so does Casey... she hates getting blind-sided by witnesses...._

Only the trial junkies and Munch seemed to be enjoying the situation. All of them, including the detective, sat on the edge of their seats, eagerly awaiting the captain's explanation.

_If John's happy to see me like this, then I can kiss good-bye any chance of repairing the damage between us...._

Don met the defense attorney's steely gaze with as bland an expression as he could muster.

"I couldn't swing any of that stuff on a captain's salary," he replied. "I doubt anyone could."

The silence in the jury box told him he had their undivided attention. The slight twitch in the muscle under Van Brocklyn's left eye proved Don's calm response had called his bluff.

"You probably don't know," he continued, certain that Van Brocklyn really did know, "that my wife was a flight attendant. Ten years ago, she was killed when her plane went down in the Everglades. After her death, I received her insurance, her benefits payout, and a large settlement from the airline."

_And I'd have given all of it back happily—it and everything else I had—if it meant getting Marge back again...._

Casey's face regained its color and the jurors settled back in their seats, their outrage sapped by his explanation. The trial junkies murmured among themselves. Van Brocklyn's face registered no surprise at either Don's recitation of the facts or the catch in his voice when he answered.

Only John stayed on the edge of his seat, his attention still focused on the witness stand. Cragen ignored him as he continued his reply.

"I used some of the money to pay off debts—our mortgage and the car loan. The rest I invested. It felt too much like blood money to do anything else with it. Then, this summer, I decided the time was right to spend some of it. I bought a car to tinker on, and I finally updated my wardrobe. As to the dinner at Breslau..."

Behind the shield of the railing, Don grabbed the edge of his chair, channeling his uneasiness over Beale into his grip and away from his expression.

"... I owed the SVU bureau chief a big favor, one too big to repay with a Happy Meal."

The giggles he won from the two jurors were not as loud as they had given Van Brocklyn, but they were enough to force the defense attorney back to his table.

"I have no further questions, Your Honor."

When the judge dismissed him as a witness, Cragen looked over to Casey, who mouthed the words "Nice save" at him.

_You don't know the half of it…._

Neither the defendant nor his attorney looked his way as Cragen left the witness box.

_I'd like to stick around—see what else Van Brocklyn has up his sleeve, but I really need to get back to the house.…_

He flexed his fingers as he walked, trying to ease the cramps left from his grip on the wooden chair. When he neared the back row, Munch arose from his seat and fell into step with him. Cragen waited for him to say something, but the silence held until they reached the elevator, where Munch pushed the "Down" call button.

Without looking at Cragen, John then said, "You bought Lau's car."

Seeing no reason to deny the truth, Cragen replied with a "Yes."

The elevator doors opened and the two men entered the empty car. Don pushed the button for the main floor.

When the door closed, John asked, "Was it worth it?"

Cragen considered the question.

_That first night, driving down back roads with Tullia, the convertible top down and a thin sliver of moon in the sky overhead… Sunday morning after Mass giving her a wash and wax—symbolically cleaning the stench of rat away… the sight of her gleaming in my driveway… the LeSabre looking like a garbage scow next to her…._

He felt a smile start to curve his lips at the pleasure the Jaguar brought him.

_Greg Lau's pride and joy… the car he blackmailed dozens of officers for… the car he murdered two good cops for…._

The smile died on his lips.

_Lau shot by Judith and Tucker, Stanton blowing his brains out at the Two-Seven, Wilkerson and Eristoff in prison… Sullivan and deMichelis forced out… Simms and Verbeck demoted… the department took a bad hit, not only from our dirty linen getting aired in public, but also the fallout from a crooked Chief of Department… One P.P. is still cleaning up that mess…._

He remembered the short shrift the newspapers and TV stations gave to the memorial services held for Officers Karen Henry and Joseph Delgado, the coverage puny compared to their reports of the officers' presumed murder-suicide.

_Despite Commissioner Richardson's best efforts, their reputations can never be completely restored… like the relationships with my people and my standing with them…._

As the elevator chimed its arrival at the main floor, Don turned to his detective.

"No, John," he told him. "Nothing coming from that mess was worth it."

The doors slid open and the knot of people awaiting the elevator parted to let them exit the car. Don left first, unsure if John would follow or if he would bother to reply.

To his relief, Munch fell back into step with him, his arrhythmic pace matching Cragen's as they crossed the courthouse rotunda. Nothing in his expression told Don what he was thinking.

When they reached the outside, Munch paused at the top of the broad stone steps. He turned his attention to a point at the far side of Foley Square. His eyes were hidden behind his lenses, and his lips were pursed as though his thoughts tasted sour on his tongue.

Don followed John's gaze until he found the same distant point.

_That's the spot where John warned me about Regina Mulroney's giant conspiracy to cover up her daughter's murder of Dean Woodruff... I shrugged it off then, but he was right...._

John's voice interrupted Don's thoughts.

"Threatening me with physical intimidation was a shitty thing to do."

_He's right about that, too...._

Don opened his mouth to agree, but John kept talking.

"I was out of line with how I was treating Otten. You were completely justified in ordering me to work cold cases with her. If that was all you'd done, the outcome would have been the same—Otten and I would have come to our senses and closed those cases."

John tensed and his head jerked around until he was looking at his captain.

"But you didn't stop there. You told me it was cold cases or a beat-down from Cutler—a promise of severe bodily harm if I gave you trouble. Captain, that is unconscionable."

Don took in John's expression and stance.

_Face pale, jaw clenched... he's leaning away from me and it's not from his leg hurting... no wonder... I treated him worse than a skel in cuffs... stripped away his pride and his rights under the rules and regs... everything I did to him and Judith was overkill… I should be facing IAB for it instead of looking into John's face and seeing how badly I scared him...._

"You're right," Don told him, his voice hushed by the pain evident in John's expression. "It was unconscionable. You're not just my subordinate—you're my friend and no way in Hell should I have treated you like that."

John turn away to gaze again across Foley Square.

_How about a sign you believe me? Turn and face me... relax... maybe one of your long sighs followed by a sarcastic jibe at my expense... something that tells me we're back to normal...._

To Don's dismay, none of that happened. When John spoke, his attention was still directed away from his captain.

"Sir," he said, "I accept your apology, and I ask your forgiveness for demanding that you perform impossible sex acts."

_Cold, precise, formal... not the sound of a friend's forgiveness...._

"Of course, John," Don said, "and thank you. Want a ride back to the house?"

His question was as much a test as an offer, and it didn't surprise him when John shook his head.

"No, I have an errand to run first," he told Cragen.

Without waiting for a reply, John made his way down the courthouse steps then he turned south on Centre Street.

_Towards the subway—man, John really is pissed if he's passing up a ride…_

He walked down the steps until he was in sunlight, but the warmth did nothing to take the chill from his soul.

_I said the right words and he made the right response... all correct and by the book, but it's not enough.... I just lost a good friend…._

He waited until the detective was out of sight, just in case John changed his mind about the subway, then he pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

_I should call Charlie... let him know to bring the car around because I'm finished here... in more ways than one...._


	11. Consequences, Intended & Otherwise:three

The length of Fin's employment with the NYPD is not in canon (or I can't find it) so this story assumes it's thirteen years based on the canon fact that he was serving with the Army's 75th Ranger Regiment in 1993 and this story is set in 2007. In this AU, the Fin time line is: born 1962, grade school, high school, college, law school, Army, then joined the police force in 1994 after his tour of duty was completed.

Twenty years on the job means retirement with a half-pay pension (at least in this AU)

Avenue A and E. Sixth Street  
3 August (Tuesday)

Munch did not take the subway back to the Sixteenth Precinct. Instead, he headed to the intersection where a child who may have been Amy Choi had been seen crossing the street on the afternoon of December 28th, 1996.

_I probably shouldn't be here, but I need a new hobby... Sofarelli's stunt with the time travel explanation for Kennedy's assassination somehow took the fun out of speculating...._

His first step in working the Choi case had involved contacting Dan Garchik, who retired from the Ninth Precinct's detective squad two years earlier. Garchik had told Munch that the bus driver who thought he saw the missing girl did not recognize the man with her.

"The driver, one Willie Manchester, was a temp filling in over the holidays," Garchik had said. "He didn't know the neighborhood or who normally hung out there. We put him with our sketch artist, but the result wasn't much."

_Garchik was right about that... Manchester saw only the guy's profile... older Caucasian, black hair, medium height and build... no eye color... dressed in a gray parka and dark pants-maybe gray, maybe black-definitely darker than the parka... his clothes didn't look new... the pink coat the girl was wearing, however, did.... the man walked across Avenue A like he was in a hurry, the girl's hand in his, and she was running to keep up with him... Manchester said she didn't look worried or frightened... once they reached the sidewalk, the driver paid no more attention to them... I got all this by riding along E. Gun Hill Road on the 28 bus with Manchester as he drove his route... he still remembered that day and that man because Amy was found under a bus bench on the very route he had been driving that day...._

Next, Munch had visited Amy's parents, who still owned the dry cleaners on East Third Street.

_They confirmed that Amy's favorite color was pink and that she was a very out-going little girl... 'everyone's friend' as her mother put it... I tried not to raise their hopes-I don't have any new leads or information... just a need to give this a try...._

After several nights spent reading through Garchik's case notes and reviewing the evidence, John had requested a search of the databases.

_Garchik ran the same searches every December between 1996 and 2005, when he retired... no hits for him then and none for me now...._

Now, Munch's plan was to take the sketch drawn from Willie Manchester's description and hit the streets with it to see if anyone remembered the man.

_Talk about a forlorn hope... but it's all I have left...._

Munch worked the area around the intersection for an hour and half after he arrived, stopping only for a slice of cheese pizza and a ginger ale at a pizzeria where he also questioned the proprietor and the kitchen staff.

_'Did you live or work here in 1996? Do you by any chance know this man?' Always identify myself and always be polite-never know which person will look at the sketch in my hand and say, "Oh, I know him!' then give me a name and address... forget how my feet are burning and the way my hip aches... and hope Loudoun remembers to cover for me the way she promised she would....._

Residence of Willow Salton  
504 W. 150th Street  
3 August

Over the weekend, Fin had considered the matter of his staying with SVU.

_I can admit I'm sick of the crap and transfer out... or I can stick around and try and keep Sofarelli from ruining everything... if I stay, I don't give Munch the satisfaction of running me off... Cragen can't think I ain't tough enough... if I leave, everyone will think I'm running away and I don't do that... less than seven years until I have my twenty in... way things are now, feels like forever...._

Monday, he and Sofarelli hammered out a working agreement.

_We talk only about work... he don't say the word "sergeant" and I don't say he'll be a crappy one... 'cepting he will... don't matter to me... I'm only here for the pension...._

Their first catch was, as Benson promised, a straight-up date-rape: the victim freely admitted that she had had 'way too many mojitos.

"So many, I don't really remember coming back here with him."

_Willow Salton... barista and would-be actress... mid-twenties... five-ten, one-twenty, curly blonde hair... all the time and money black women spend straightening their hair and this woman goes and gets hers all kinked up... there's no explaining women...._

Fin took notes while Couch asked the necessary questions.

"Are you certain you had sex Friday night?"

"Uh, yeah-sure. I was all... uh... raw when I woke up Saturday."

"Are you certain you did not consent to the sex?"

"No, but I was drunk. I could tell by the hangover."

"And you have no idea who you brought home with you Friday night?"

"Not a clue, but it's not like I'm a slut or something. This is the first time anything like this ever happened to me."

"Why did you wait until Tuesday to call us?"

"I wasn't sure what happened. Monday after work, I told my friend Jenny and she said I should report it, just in case. She said I also should get a morning-after pill and tested for STDs. I got the pills last night, but I don't know about the other thing."

"We'll get you the info you need. Did you happen to find a used condom in your waste basket?"

"No, I didn't think to look. I empty the trash on trash day; that's not until tomorrow.

Both detectives locked gazes and attempted to stare one another down.

_You the junior one, Sofarelli... you go look for the splooge balloon...._

Couch looked away first.

"Excuse me, Ms Salton," he said as he got to his feet. A minute later, he returned from the bathroom with a used condom inside an evidence bag.

_We got DNA...._

"Ms Salton," Couch asked, "have you had sex with anyone since Friday night?"

Willow shook her head again.

After they arranged for Salton to meet them later in the afternoon to look at mug shots, Fin and Couch did a quick canvass of the other apartments on her floor and the deli downstairs. No one had seen Salton come home Friday night.

"Gonna be one of those damn 'She said, can't find a he to say anything' cases," Fin groused as he unlocked the tan Taurus they were using that day. "People gotta learn not to get so drunk they don't know who they screwing."

"Think date-rape drugs were used?" Couch asked from his side of the car.

"If he used GHB, we'd need a blood sample within five hours of her leaving the club to find it--twelve for a urine test."

"And we're a day too late to test for roofies."

Fin grunted his agreement.

_At least you know that much...._

"Think Cragen will tell us to drop this?" Couch asked.

Fin settled into the driver's seat with a snort of derision.

"We got a victim, a complaint, and evidence. Don't matter what Cragen says; we got a case-just don't know who it's against."

He started the car.

"You call CSU-get them over here to check for prints. We'll run by the lab and drop off the condom then go see about that complaint with the kid."

Residence of Nabil and Leia Boujaoide  
1424 Third Avenue  
3 August

The Boujaoides were Lebanese, and the religious pictures and ornate crosses on the walls of their living room proved them to be Christians.

_Liv's oh-for-two on this one... Couch whispered to me that they're Maronites-some sort of Catholic, I think...._

The story, as told by Nabil Boujaoide, was that his son Michael, aged thirteen, had been propositioned by a man seeking oral sex while spending the weekend with his cousin, Walid Fawaz, also thirteen, at the Fawaz home in Queens.

_That means it's Queens SVU's case, not ours... crime occurred on their turf...._

Fin let Sofarelli give him the bad news. Mr. Boujaoides went pale.

"You mean you can't do anything about this now? I have to wait for other detectives to come to my house and speak to us?"

Couch glanced at Fin, who kept his expression blank.

_You handle it... you're the one who wants to run things...._

The younger detective explained the jurisdictional problem to Mr. Boujaoide then he said, "We can take you son's statement, but it would be better if Queens SVU took it themselves. It's one less time he'll have to tell his story; I'm sure he'll appreciate that."

Couch pulled out his cell phone.

"I'll call their captain right now and ask him how fast he can get you together with his detectives."

The offer seemed to settle Boujaoide's concern so Couch made the call and arranged for the Boujaoides to meet with Detectives Moore and Sanders at Queens SVU.

_Kid can also look at mug shots of their local perverts... really hate to give this up-sounds like an easy collar... also hate to say it, but Sofarelli handled it okay...._

Once the arrangements were made, the detectives said their farewells and returned to the Taurus.

_Next, we meet Willow Salton back at the house and start her looking at mug shots... we take her photo and go back to that club... see if anyone remembers her and the guy she may have left with... that should finish out today... only two thousand one hundred and eighty-seven to go...._

Emergency Room  
Mercy General Hospital  
3 August

The two rape victims had not changed or showered since their attacks, so Otten and Lake had a good shot at solid forensic data. Neither victim wanted to disrobe with a male doctor or detective present, but both were willing to talk to one, so Chester interviewed the victims while Judith oversaw the rape kits and gathered the physical evidence.

_Two attacks ten blocks and two hours apart... Janie Saymore was coming home from her job as a short order cook in an all-night diner, Brenda Morawski was heading out for an early morning walk... same M.O. for both attacks... a man with a knife came up behind each victim... first, he demanded money, then he dragged her out of sight of the street and raped her... both of their descriptions match-tan ski mask, jeans, black t-shirt... tall, thin, strong... one victim thinks he 'sounded black'... the other only remembers the smell of bacon on his breath... according to Judith, nothing similar has occurred recently in Manhattan, but we had a similar string of attacks near Greenwood Cemetery last summer...._

When Otten emerged from the examining room with the bags of clothes and other evidence from the second victim, Lake took them from her.

_I said I'd sit with Saymore until the RMP shows up to take her home... Morawski came in with her sister and they left the second I finished asking my questions...._

Thirty minutes later, after he walked Saymore out to the patrol car then gave the collected evidence to the officers for delivery to the lab, he headed for ICU. Fontana's room was flanked by two uniforms, both of whom glanced at the shield clipped to Lake's lapel before ignoring him.

The thought that the predominate color for his first sight of Fontana had been gray...

_Gray Mercedes, gray suit and shirt, gray hair... what with burying two SVU detectives that day, my mood was kinda gray, too...._

... and now the prevailing color was bruise purple.

_No wonder Judith's worried... bang a guy his age up like that and things can go south in a hurry.... that other man must be his brother... mid-sixties, heavier build... white hair and glasses... hands look like they know their way around a tool box-no manicure for those nails...._

Lake saw Judith look his way. She said something to the brother then gave Fontana a peck on his uninjured cheek. His gaze followed her exit until she reached where Lake was standing then Fontana raised his right hand to wave.

Chester nodded back at him then turned to follow his partner down the hall.

"Can't they at least pretend to cover him up?" he asked.

Judith shook her head.

"The doctors are still monitoring for internal bleeding-that and any pressure on those rods really hurts Joe. I'm ignoring it, but Nick razzes him-says this is divine retribution for past sins."

Having heard the comments made about Fontana's reputation when Judith was out of the squadroom, Chester knew to what she referred. He also had worked with Judith long enough to know a "keeping it in his pants" crack would be incredibly tasteless coming from him.

_Kinship has its privileges...._

"Joe said you were a big help locating Anacasis and Meade," Judith continued. "I didn't realize it was you who led him to Brandon Stone."

"Yep, that was me," he replied then, to change the subject away from uncomfortable memories, he said, "I got Saymore and the clothing squared away. I also put a call into Brooklyn SVU. We should have the info on the Greenwood Cemetery attacks by the time we get back to the house."

She broke stride long enough to grin at him.

"That's the first time you've said that."

"Said what?"

"'Back to the house.' The One-Six must be starting to feel like home."

"Well...."

Chester let his response trail off.

_I don't know a polite way to say, 'Only if 'home' means 'a place where dysfunctional people work....'_

The wry smile on his partner's face told him Judith caught his meaning.

"It's got its problems," she admitted, "and I should work on resolving a couple of them."

Chester nodded.

_You talking things out with the captain and Sofarelli would put things a step closer to normal...._

"How about you take care of that while I set up the case files?"

This time, his words brought Judith to a complete stop.

"You're offering to do paperwork?"

Before Chester could deny it, she accepted his offer with another, bigger grin.

"You're on."

Rooftop across Suffolk Street from Loven Hugs Preschool  
3 August

"See? Those indentations in the tar? That's where he was sitting."

Both Benson and Loudoun leaned over to examine several sets of four dimples, each set marking the corners of a square some twenty inches on a side. Loudoun pointed her finger at a cluster of dimples.

"Looks like four different sets. He must have come and gone several time, each time taking his chair with him."

Olivia turned to the sergeant from the Seventh Precinct who was overseeing the responding officers.

"Did you find a chair stashed anywhere up here?"

"No, ma'am," he replied. "All we found was a rusty mason's trowel left by the air shaft."

Donna shook her head as though to say "No help there."

I agree, which means the perp either carried his chair up the fire escape, or he came in the main entrance and used the interior stairs... or he lives in the building....

The CSU tech next drew their attention to two smudges on the edge of the cement that capped the brick facade of the building.

"These are the right distance apart to be elbows. We think he rested his there while using the binoculars that teacher spotted."

"Start a canvass of the building," Olivia told the sergeant. "See if anyone saw someone carrying a folding chair and binoculars to the roof and when they saw him."

As he headed away to start the canvass, Olivia straightened and peered over the roof edge.

_Great view of the preschool... got the main entrance, the gate and walkway to the rear of the building, and about half of the play area at the rear... the perfect spot for watching small children heading out for play time...._

Donna came over to stand beside Olivia.

"Think he was spying on them or taking pictures?"

Olivia shrugged.

"He might have been jerking off, getting his jollies while imagining himself with one of the kids. That's why the first thing I did was have the roof and cement swapped for DNA. If we get any and the guy is in the system--"

"Then we got him," Loudoun finished her sentence. "Let's hope so. The idea that someone was up here looking down at those little kids...."

Donna shuddered. "I don't like it."

Neither do I," Olivia replied. "Let's go join the canvass."

_Maybe we'll get lucky and the perv is right beneath our feet, waiting for us to knock on his door and arrest him...._

Office of Arthur Branch  
One Hogan Place  
3 August

Elizabeth Olivet's report arrived at the DA's office at two-fifteen Tuesday afternoon. Branch slit open the envelope using his pocket knife. After he had read it, he phoned McCoy and asked him to come to his office. When Jack arrived, Branch handed him the report without giving him a chance to make himself comfortable on the sofa.

Jack flipped to the pertinent part of Olivet's report:

_"Chief of Department Sullivan's dereliction of his responsibilities and duties to the New York City Police Department, insofar as his actions affected Captain Cragen and those under his command, and Sullivan's personal betrayal of Donald Cragen, when added to the physical injuries and mental distress suffered in the course of Operation Chestnut by Captain Cragen, were sufficient to trigger post-traumatic stress in the captain. This manifested as general depression, irritability, an emotional withdrawal from those in his unit who worked with him on Operation Chestnut, and a single-minded determination to improve his situation and environment. To this end, Captain Cragen sought new friends and allies from outside the department; he upgraded his wardrobe and permitted himself frivolous expenditures, and he actively put himself forward as a candidate for promotion. Not one of these actions or behaviors by themselves, nor all of them in concert, are cause for alarm._

_"Since Captain Cragen continues to perform his duties as the commander of the SV Unit in an acceptable manner, and since he show no symptoms beyond those listed above, I see no reason to place him on leave nor would I recommend other administrative actions. Further counseling as a support while he resolves some minor personal conflicts arising from the above-mentioned stress would be advantageous. Such counseling need not last more than six months, if that long."_

"And I thought law review articles were dull," Jack commented.

"I find nothing boring in that report," Arthur told him as he stretched out his arm to take it from Jack. "Being left in a quandary is anything but dull."

Jack handed the papers over to the DA then stuck his hand in his pockets.

"I can see why you think so," he told his boss. "Stabler and Benson cleared Andrew, but Elizabeth doesn't give you any cover for asking Cragen to leave. There's no mention of him suffering from paranoia, fantasies, or hallucinations-sexual or otherwise."

Branch dropped the report on his desk as though it disgusted him. The sour grimace on his face echoed the disgust.

"Which means," he told Jack, "there's a minute chance Cragen is right even though his people found no evidence to support him."

"Or-"

Jack drew out the monosyllable while he thought through the opposing view.

"-Cragen is wrong, and he either fooled Olivet or she missed it."

Branch's throat worked as though fighting back nausea.

"You really think Cragen could hide paranoia from Dr. Olivet?"

Jack considered the question for a moment then shook his head.

"No, I don't. I'm merely offering another possibility, unlikely though it may be. What do you plan to do now?"

Branch picked up the receiver of his desk phone.

"This... Sarah, get me Captain Donald Cragen, Manhattan SVU."

Jack took a seat on the leather sofa. He and Branch made small talk until Sarah had the captain on the line.

"Captain Cragen?" Branch asked, making no effort to identify himself. "I promised I'd call you as soon as I'd finished looking into the matter we discussed. According to the findings, there is nothing to prove the person in question has committed or planned to commit any of the actions purported to him by you... yes, that's correct."

Jack waited while the DA listened to the other end of his call.

"I appreciate that, Captain," Branch said, "but I've read Dr. Olivet's report and I have no cause to hold you to your promise. I'm calling this matter 'closed' and I suggest you do the same while remembering the details of your agreement with me."

He hung up without further pleasantries then he fixed his attention on McCoy.

"Cragen better be grateful I didn't ask him to resign, and he better show that gratitude with his silence."

"I don't think you need to worry about that," Jack told him. "From what I've seen of Cragen, he's the epitome of discretion."

Branch's scowl deepened.

"He'd better be. Last thing I want is word of this leaking to Andrew. Beale's prickly as a porcupine and almost as much fun to dance with."

Branch opened a desk drawer and slid Olivet's report into it, shutting the drawer with a hard shove that symbolized the end of the matter. Jack cleared his throat to regain the DA's attention.

"Arthur, have you heard anything yet from Martinez?"

Branch muttered something about "that whirling son of a bitch" under his breath before telling McCoy the Bronx DA had not seen fit to respond to his request for information.

"Figures," Jack replied. "We haven't found who requested Skoda's report from this office, but Alex is still digging."

Branch's grimace lost some of its sourness.

"I know Alexandra. If it can be found, she'll find it."

Office of Donald Cragen  
Manhattan SVU  
3 August

The sound of Branch ending his call had faded, but Cragen still held the phone receiver to his ear, so stunned was he by the contents of that call.

_No proof of Beale targeting me or anyone else... and Olivet gave me a clean bill of mental health... I expected the second one, but not the first... there has to be evidence... he can't be a first-timer-not with me as his prey... beginners pick out easy victims... the CO of an SV unit-heck, that's like a World Series win... the culmination of a career spent honing his skills...._

He set the receiver on its cradle then folded his hands before him on his desk and pondered his next move.

_I should go back to Olivet and tell her the whole story... how I think my friend is a predator and a pervert... that he's been checked out and cleared...._

Don briefly wondered if the district attorney had bothered to investigate his allegations.

_Of course Branch did... he'd have to... no way he could assume I was wrong without checking it out... the fallout would shake up his office--and Branch's chances of reelection... which means I really am delusional regarding Beale... forget about telling Olivet... I should keep quiet and forget about it... treat it like a bad dream and be thankful I'm not being forced to retire or ending up in the traffic division on Staten Island...._

The sudden stab of pain in his gut and the clammy sweat that followed told him his instincts would not let him forget the matter.

_I've gone through too much Maalox trying to calm my stomach to be wrong about Beale... doesn't matter what Branch says-I know I'm right... and I've got twelve days until the promotion list comes out to figure out what I'm going to do about it...._

Office of Anthony F. Balzano, First Deputy Commissioner, NYPD  
One Police Plaza  
3 August

Anita Van Buren had given the matter a great deal of thought and, truth be told, a fair amount of prayer. She also had talked it over with her husband, the two of them discussing whether the financial hit of losing her pension was worth doing what she knew she had to do.

_I'm not sure Donald understands why this sticks in my craw worse than the treatment I got after losing my lawsuit... but it does... maybe it's because I had a choice in what happened next... I could have quit the force but I didn't... that doesn't apply this time...._

Finally, her husband had taken her hand and said, "Anita, don't worry about the money. You do what you think is right, and I'll back you one thousand percent."

The memory of his trust and support made her eyes water and her nose stuff up. She ducked into the ladies room to repair the damage.

_I know this is right... I can't live with myself if I don't say something... Donald might not understand, but he meant what he told me... he sat up late to help me fill out my retirement papers... just in case they let me retire..._

The resolute woman who stared back at Van Buren from the restroom's wall mirror looked as though she wanted to say, "Stop thinking like that."

_Right... I start thinking defeat and that's exactly what I'll get... I need to march in there and tell Balzano what a sorry piece of shit he is and what he needs to do about it...._

She drew in a deep breath then smiled at her reflection.

_They didn't break me before... they ain't gonna break me now...._

Van Buren picked the folder containing her retirement forms from the edge of the sink then headed for the First Deputy Commissioner's office. So focused was she on her goal, she barely noticed her friend waving at her from her desk in the personnel administration office.

_Charlene told me four-thirty was a good time to catch Balzano in his office... she was right-when I called, his aide got me right in...._

The First Deputy Commissioner did not bother to stand when Van Buren entered is office.

_To him, I'm not a lady... I'm an uppity black woman with a bad attitude...._

The office of the First Deputy Commissioner was huge, almost the size of Van Buren's squadroom. Van Buren had never entered the room before so she took note of its décor as she walked to his desk.

_Lots of ornate oak and landscapes done in oils, thick dark blue carpet-no Linoleum here, a grandfather clock ticking away behind me... dozens of signed photographs... looks more like a museum than an office...._

Balzano sat behind his huge oak desk, its surface empty of paper, its accessories polished brass. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit, starched white shirt, and a black tie with only a hint of blue in its weave. His deep-set eyes regarded her from behind the protection of his eagle-beak nose. Their stare made him look like a vulture contemplating his next meal.

For a moment, Van Buren tried to picture him wearing rainbow sherbet colors like Fontana.

_Stop it, girl... no good busting out laughing... not unless you want to be fired before you say anything to deserve it...._

"Lieutenant," Balzano said in a voice devoid of warmth, "you said this was urgent. What is it?"

Van Buren swallowed a comment about his manners before digging right in.

"Sir, I told you at the shooting review I didn't like the way Detective Fonta-"

"Lieutenant, make that 'former detective'."

She inclined her head as though accepting his correction.

"Yes, sir," she replied. "After three years of overseeing Fontana, I know exactly the corners he cut and the shortcuts he took. I can't deny he probably deserved those complaints; my problem was only with the way they were handled by the department when they came to light."

_I sure hope that's mealy-mouthed enough to get by...._

Balzano's eyes narrowed.

"You made that very clear at the review. Why bring it up again?"

Van Buren faked a humble smile.

"Because, sir, the method you chose for separating Fontana from the force left him vulnerable. You know about the two attempts on his life?"

Balzano's head jerked slightly.

_I'll take that as a "Yes"...._

"Another credible threat," she continued, "has been made by Tomas Crespo, a drug dealer from Hunts Point in the Bronx. Crespo just began a sentence of twenty to life at Attica so his lieutenants are jockeying for control of his organization. Since Fontana is the one who made the collar, Crespo is asking his people to take him out to prove their loyalty and ability to run things in his absence."

Van Buren watched the deputy commissioner appear to stifle a yawn.

_Dumb ass... you wouldn't be yawning if it was you Crespo was after... _

"I understand there's already a guard watching Fontana's hospital room," Balzano said.

_Yeah--and Donnie Cragen put them there, not you... but I know better than to say his name anywhere near you...._

She gave him her best 'Thank you for stating the obvious' smile then said, "And that's a good thing because Fontana's a sitting duck with all those steel rods and plastic tubes sticking out everywhere. When the doctors finish putting him back together and send him home, Fontana will spend weeks, maybe months, using a walker while everything finishes healing. He'll be slow, cautious of where and how he moves-an easy target for every thug with a street piece and a need to win Crespo's approval."

She saw Balzano's cheeks bow out, a sign he had just clenched his jaw.

_Angry about this is good... maybe you're finally getting the picture...._

Balzano's response proved her wrong.

"Fontana isn't hurting for money," he said, his words measured and cold. "He can hire more bodyguards-although, if I were him, I'd choose more carefully. That first batch didn't do such a good job."

Before Van Buren could voice her indignation, he lowered his head to glare at her.

"What is it you really want here, Lieutenant?"

_That's a warning to apologize for wasting his time then to get the hell out of his office...._

Her fingers tightened about the folder in her hand.

_I keep pushing him and I'm going to need this papers...._

The memory of the fake orderly standing over her detective's unconscious form, his hand drawing his .22 from his waistband, propelled her a step closer to Balzano's desk.

"I want you," she told him, her voice showing no trace of the tension that was fluttering her stomach, "to have Bronx South Narcotics take down Tomas Crespo's organization and everyone in it-the runners, the corner boys, the soldiers, and the money men. Start at the bottom and keep rolling them up until everyone of them is charged and in jail. Prove to the street that even a disgraced detective can't be messed with."

For a moment, Van Buren thought she had sold Balzano on it. His eyes lost their tight focus on her face, making it appear that he was considering her request. This was followed by a sharp shake of his head.

"BSN has its own operations and priorities," he told her. "Why should I toss them out the window for Fontana?"

She drew in a breath and steeled herself for the blowback she knew her next words would cause.

_That's why I got a back-up plan... first, exaggerate the situation...._

"Because dumping Fontana the way you did almost makes it look like you want him dead."

Balzano reared back in his chair. For an instant, he looked scared, but the fear was gone before she could be sure of it, replaced by a sneer of anger at the accusation.

Having gotten his attention, Van Buren immediately walked back her words.

"Now, I know you don't want Fontana hurt... "

_Next, warn him of the consequences...._

"... but that's how it looks on the street, and that's how it looks to the detectives and officers discussing Fontana around the water coolers and coffee pots in the precinct houses."

She placed her folder on his overly tidy desk then set her hands palm down on it. The action did not put her any closer to him, but Balzano edged back from her, his back compressing the cushion of his leather chair.

_Then, appeal to his sense of duty... if I do this right, Balzano will see the wisdom in what I'm saying... if only to keep the cop on the beat from talking against him...._

"Sir," she said, "if we don't watch out for our own, including the iffy ones, then we aren't any better than the scum we're supposed to be protecting against."

Van Buren took her folder from the desk and assumed an "at attention" stance to hide the way her knees were trembling. Across the desk from her, she saw his face redden and his fists clench, his breathing quicken and his eyes narrow.

_Looks like I just blew it...._

Her grip tightened on the folder and its forms.

_I've got detectives who follow procedures... who do the job without drama or complaint... who don't substitute their own sense of right and wrong for the law... they don't give me a smidgen of the grief Fontana did... none of that matters... forget the fancy clothes and the attitude--Fontana's one of us... I had to speak up for him... whatever the cost...._

They stayed in tableau--Van Buren at attention, Balzano frozen by his rage--until the grandfather clock whirred then began to strike the five o'clock hour. The chimes wiped the sneer from Balzano's face, but not the snarl from his voice.

"You had your say, Lieutenant," he told her. "Now, get the hell back to your unit."

His lack of action--either to fulfill her request or to can her ass--left Van Buren confused and shaken. All she could manage was a quiet "Yes, sir" before leaving.


	12. Situation Far From Normal: part one

A/N: I'm cribbing from the Chuck Norris movie "Code of Silence" for the photo on Otten's desk. In the movie, Chuck Norris played a Chicago narcotics detective and Dennis Farina played his partner. The opening scene has the two of them undercover as city sanitation workers compete with garbage truck. This is not L&O canon, but I have to fill Fontana's back story in with something. Why not a garbage truck?

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
4 August (Wednesday)

Munch was getting his morning tea when Benson came up behind him.

" 'morning, John," she greeted him. "How you doing?"

_My feet hurt, my nose is sun-burned, and I dreamed about Amy Choi last night...._

"Peachy as always," he replied as he stepped back to give her access to the coffee pot.

Olivia reached for her mug, her need for coffee blinding her to his appearance. While she poured her coffee, she said, "I'm supposed to give a talk on self-defense to Councilman Baker's neighborhood forum later this morning," she told him. "Can you work with Donna on the preschool case? We've lined up a couple of local businesses who have security cameras. Maybe their tapes will show someone carrying a chair past their shops."

Munch beamed at her.

_A job I can do sitting down... Liv, I could kiss you...._

"Of course. It would be a pleasure."

She blinked as though surprised by his unexpected cheer before taking her coffee back to her desk. John remained by the stairs, dunking his tea bag in his mug while he observed the interactions around him.

_Cragen standing by Fin and Couch... none of them look happy...._

He could hear enough of their conversation to know the unhappiness stemmed from the status of their current cases.

_Fin and Couch aren't being productive... Cragen's suggesting they concentrate more on procedure and less on personal matters_—_talk about _chutzpah....

He gave a snort of disgust before shifting his position until he could observe Otten and Lake at their desks.

_Both stacked high with case folders... poor Otten—caught another serial rapist... I don't envy her at all...._

From what John could hear, she and Chester had arranged to go to the Department of Transportation to look at photos taken by the traffic cameras near where their two victims were attacked.

_As a citizen concerned about the totalitarian nature of our government and its incessant spying on what should be unobstructed free commerce, I'm appalled by those cameras... but I've closed many cases thanks to those same cameras and their spy data, so I should be grateful for them... someday, I may find a way to reconcile both emotions...._

At the far end of the room, Elliot was at his desk, feet propped on an open drawer, as he talked with Donna, Chloe, and Taylor.

_Judging from his hand gestures, he either went fishing on his day-off and is describing his catch... or he spent the day holding yarn hanks for someone to wind into balls...._

The memory of that task, performed for both his mother and his aunts, made his shoulders ache in remembered discomfort.

_Great... a psychosomatic pain to got with my aching feet... and there goes Cragen back into his office... must have seen his shadow... Otten's following him... and shutting the door behind her... wonder what's up... maybe she's asking for tomorrow off... Connie and I stopped by to see Fontana last night... they've scheduled his pelvic and back surgery first thing in the morning...._

Loudoun calling his name brought John out of his thoughts. He tossed his tea bag into the waste basket then joined her at his desk.

"How'd your canvass go?" she asked, her attention more on her case notes than on him.

John slid into his chair and set both feet on his desk.

"I need a new pair of those," he said, his index finger pointing at his toes. "There isn't a square foot of Alphabet City left untrod by them."

His hyperbole failed to prompt any sympathy. All Donna gave him was a nod that said, "I hope I look like I'm listening."

_That's okay... I'm used to women ignoring me... marriage will do that to a man...._

"Despite my best efforts," he continued, "I found no one who recognized the man in the sketch, and only four people who still remembered Amy's murder."

"It's been eleven years, Munch," Donna told him. "People come and go. Nobody stays in one place anymore."

_And it would be so fine to see Amy's killer's face at my door... but Carole King isn't much help right now...._

"One of the ones who remembered the murder promised to get me the addresses of two shop owners who retired and moved away. She said maybe they might be able to help."

Loudoun's upper lip cũrled at the thought.

"Yeah," she said, "assuming they haven't gone senile and assuming this person actually follows through on that promise."

She handed him a sheet of paper.

"You asked me to give you an afternoon, and I did, but that was yesterday. Here's today's work."

The paper held a list of business names and addresses. Two names were underlined in blue ink, indicating the ones who had agreed to let their security tapes be viewed. John took the paper then peered at Loudoun over his lenses.

"You're too young to be so cynical."

She peered back at him, lacking only glasses to complete her imitation of his position and expression.

"And you're too old to be a white knight. Not every case gets closed, you know."

John drew back and frowned at her.

_I know... I know only too well... _

He then rose to his feet and shoved his chair under his desk with more force than it required.

"Okay, Loudoun—let's go find your chair-carrying preschool voyeur."

Office of Donald Cragen  
Manhattan SVU  
4 August

His words to Fin and Couch had left a bad taste in Cragen's mouth.

_I feel like a hypocrite telling them to keep their minds in the game... unfortunately, I can't allow any of my detectives to get sloppy on their cases...._

He went into his office wondering if a quiet transfer for Fin might be the best way to handle the situation.

_I'm going to lose Couch as soon as he gets his sergeant's stripes, but he's not the only one Fin is having trouble with... there's him and Elliot, him and Loudoun, and him and John... don't know why... I asked Olivia and she's doesn't know, either...._

He shrugged out of his jacket and was slipping it onto a hanger when he heard a knock on the wood of his open door.

_Judith... she looks upset...._

He invited her in, immediately regretting his action when she shut the door behind her. She slid into the chair opposite his and sat bolt upright, her hands clasped in her lap. Rather than tower over her, Cragen took his seat across from her.

_Please tell me this isn't about transferring out or you retiring... I just got this unit back to full strength...._

"Sir," she said, "if you've some time to spare, there's a couple things...."

Cragen spread both hands wide.

"Of course, Judith. As much time as you need."

He watched her draw in a deep breath.

"First, am I not working with Couch because he complained about me?"

Cragen bit back a smile.

_That's not a retirement notice... good... and bad because now I have to admit yet more failures on my part...._

"No," he replied, "that was a ham-handed attempt to make peace between warring partners by splitting them up. You and Couch, John and Fin—it was easier than finding out what the problems were and fixing them."

"Couch thinks I'm burned out," she told him, answering his implied question. "I don't know about Fin and Munch. Neither does Munch and Fin isn't saying."

"Then I need to find out," Cragen admitted. "As far as being burned out, Couch doesn't know much about that. Unfortunately, this is a great place to learn."

One corner of Judith's mouth twitched upward then she dropped her gaze and blinked a few times.

_Change of subject coming up... her fingers are still twisted together... Couch isn't the main thing on her mind...._

"Sir, about Friday."

She slowly raised her head and her gaze met his.

"I left you hanging because I needed time to think about what you said. The way I see apologies, they're not meaningful unless amends are made, and the one apologizing takes steps to keep from repeating it again."

Cragen nodded.

_Straight out of the Twelve Steps... which are based on Judeo-Christian tenets... that's why I'm paying so much attention to you guys... I need to make things right again...._

Judith paused to swallow then she said, "And you're doing that. You let me have Monday off because Joe was hurt. You assigned Officer Charles to guard his room. If he hadn't been there—"

Her last word stuttered out as she began to shake. Her nose reddened and tears welled in her eyes. With a rapid motion learned from frequent contact with crying women, Cragen reached behind him for the box of tissue he kept for such emergencies. Judith snatched two from the box then buried her face in them.

"It's okay," he assured her as she sobbed. "I'm happy he was there, too."

_But I'm not glad I put him there... because of Fontana's situation, our precinct commander kicked the matter upstairs for confirmation, but nothing came back... So I stepped in because I felt I owed Judith... now, I'm the one stuck with it, but I don't have the budget or the manpower to keep those officers there much longer...._

Across the desk from him, Judith wiped her nose and began to compose herself.

_And I don't understand about you and Fontana... just six weeks ago, you were telling me how much you missed your husband... now, you're engaged... what in God's name is going on?_

As soon as Judith met his gaze again, Cragen said, "Van Buren said there were two threats made against Fontana."

_If that's true, I can get those officers back...._

Judith nodded then said, "But the attack on Monday morning wasn't one Joe knew about. There's still a Bronx drug dealer who ordered his people to... uh... take care of Joe for him."

_Damn...._

Don picked up a pencil.

"What's his name? I'll make some calls, maybe get Narcotics to do something proactive."

"It's Tomas Crespo, but I already tried. Bronx Narcotics is hip-deep in another big operation, and they won't divert any resources from it until it's over."

He wrote the name on the margin of the report he was supposed to be proofing.

_I've got a bit more juice than you have... might as well put it to good use...._

Cragen then gave his detective a thorough look-over.

_Dark circles under her eyes means not enough sleep... wedding ring on her right hand... Fontana's diamond taking its place... it's not my business, but I've got to ask...._

He folded his hands on his desk and peered at her face.

"Judith, I've obviously missed a lot that's been going on here. If you don't mind explaining, what about you and Fontana?"

_Why you and that over-dressed peacock?_

He listened with growing amazement while she told him about Fontana, starting with her making fun of him at McMullen's Bar and ending with his proposal to her in Chicago.

_Wow... and I didn't even hear a 'whoosh' as all this went right by me...._

Don's disbelief must have shown because Judith then said, "It's not like that—not at all. If Joe were a predator, he would be trying to control my life, but he isn't. He comes to our family dinners, goes to _Shabbat_ services with me, and takes my parents out and talks Italian history with my father. He helped me get through Fred and Tammy's funerals and he was a big help with the cold cases—you must have seen him working with us."

Don nodded.

_Oh, yes... Beale though he was one of my people...._

Judith broke out in a grin accompanied by a low chuckle.

"He even cleaned out half his clothes closet for me."

Don clamped his jaw shut but a strangled laugh got past his lips. Judith blushed even redder.

"I know it sounds silly," she said, "but deciding which suits to keep and which to give away was a big deal for him."

Don tried to look impressed, but a mental image of Fontana plucking suits from their hangers while chanting "She loves me, she loves me not" made him choke back another laugh.

"Seriously," Judith insisted. "He spent all day Friday on it then, on Saturday, he had my granddaughters and me over to see the result. Nila and Cara took a pile of ties and pocket squares home for dress-up."

The fond smile on Judith's face told Don nothing he said would change her mind.

_Okay—so Fontana is the man of your dreams... but he's still a rogue cop who was kicked off the force...._

He leaned forward to emphasize the importance of his next question.

"And what about Fontana getting canned?"

Judith stiffened.

"Balzano is an ass," she snapped. "Joe didn't bury those complaints, but we're going to find out who did. Joe says he'll even go through disciplinary action to get his shield back because it's better than being labeled 'dirty' without due cause."

Don sat back in his chair.

_That sounded rehearsed... she's probably repeated it to every one of her friends and relatives... I'd like to pursue this, but I'm too far over the personal boundaries line as it is...._

He curved his lips in an attempt to look like he was happy for her.

"Okay," he told Judith, "that's it for the questions, and I'll keep Fontana's heath and his appeal in my prayers."

Judith smiled back, which told him his grin had worked.

Thank you, sir. He's having more surgery tomorrow and I appreciate—"

His desk phone rang. Cragen glared at it as Judith got to her feet.

"I'll let you answer that. Thank you again."

Before Cragen could say he would let it go to voice-mail, she was gone. Angered that their conversation had been cut short, he snatched up the receiver and snarled "What?" at it.

Beale's voice sounded in his ear.

"_Good morning, Don. Bad day already?"_

Cragen drew in a deep breath.

_This is my friend.... this is my friend...._

With that mantra running through his head, he replied, "Not yet, but the day is young."

"_Cheer up, things should get better soon—soon being eleven days from now. Speaking of which, you up for something Friday evening? The DA's office is having a cocktail party for all the summer interns. Most of them have been stuck in the law libraries and Westlaw archives their entire time here—I know, because I've had two of them slaving away for me. Before we send them back to law school, we show them a good time in the hope the best ones will pick public service with us over making partner at one of the white-shoe firms."_

"That's wonderful," Cragen told him, "but why involve me?"

He could almost hear Beale's shrug.

"_Can't hurt to give them some insight into your side of the law and order equation—that and you'll get some more face time with the DA and the other bureau chiefs. After all, we don't know who you'll be working with yet."_

Don's innards lurched.

_I've had all the 'face time' with Arthur Branch that I can stomach... jackass refused to believe me...._

"Sorry, Andrew," Don replied in a tone he hoped sounded both conciliatory and firm, "Friday's my day off, and I've already made plans."

There was a pause then Beale said, _"This could be important. Can't you change your plans?"_

Don glanced across his desk to the spot where Judith, mere minutes ago, had articulated the rationale for his refusal.

_You're trying to control my life... I know that... I also know the price you're going to ask me to pay for all your 'support and assistance'... at least, I think I do...._

"Sorry, Andrew," he replied. "If I do that, I'll piss off John Baker. He's roped me into a golf match that afternoon against Councilman Orsag and Inspector Morrissey."

The pause that followed was almost as long, but the snort of laughter that ended it made the wait worth the worry.

"_Okay, Don—that's a good use of your time, too. Watch out for Orsag. He went to Hudson on a golf scholarship and almost turned pro. We still on for our round Saturday?"_

Don assured him that he'd be at Tuckahoe with his clubs at the appointed time then he ended the call by claiming a detective needed him. The instant Beale hung up, he dropped the phone in its cradle and wiped his hand on his slacks.

_Gets harder even time I do this... all the pretending... I wasn't cut out for undercover work... I'm too honest, and too blunt... but I let Beale get his hooks in me... now, I've got to turn the tables and keep him hooked... switch from being his prey to his predator...._

He mentally ran through the next steps in that process.

_Install those web cams I bought in my house... I'm glad now I let Olivia talk me into getting Morales to set up that wi-fi connection for me... I can hide the cameras wherever I need them then record everything without the hassle of hiding their wires...._

The tech at the electronics shop had explained how to get his home computer to accept and store the recorded images.

_All neat and tidy... but that's in case everything else fails... my goal is to catch Beale with enough evidence to prove I'm right about him before it gets to the point I need video...._

Again, Don pushed all thought of what that video might show from his mind.

_Don't think about that... it's hard enough remembering to always keep control of the situation around me... there's no way Beale can overpower me... he's too short and too fat... but there's plenty of ways for him to get the advantage... drugs would be my guess... means I can't drink or eat anything he hands me if it's in an opened container... good thing I don't drink mixed drinks... it's harder to doctor a sealed water bottle... but I can't be obvious about it... anything that tips Beale off ruins everything...._

He glanced through the open Venetian blinds at Munch's vacant desk.

_I'd give a year's pay to have John backing my play on this... with his years of experience and his paranoid tendencies, he'd spot every weakness in my plans... but he's not speaking to me... Judith would be good, too... but she has enough on her plate...._

Don mentally ticked through the roster of detectives, considering and rejecting each one in turn.

_It's my own fault... I alienated everyone on this shift and a few people on Howie's shift... some of the ties have been repaired, but everything is still strained... there's no way I can resume a leadership role and announce how I let myself get targeted as a victim... or that I'm paranoid and need a psych leave... no, it's better if I handle this on my own...._

SVU Squadroom  
4 August

With Otten and Lake out interviewing victims who were attacked near Greenwood Cemetery, Munch and Loudoun checking surveillance tapes for a _voyeur_ with a chair, Tutuola and Sofarelli attempting to locate the man who may have raped Willow Salton, Benson speaking at the neighborhood form, and Cragen shuffling papers in his office, Elliot Stabler had the squadroom to himself.

_Nothing to do except paperwork... and that can wait...._

He checked over his shoulder to make sure his captain was attending to his own work.

_I don't really want to explain what I'm doing... not yet, anyway...._

Assured by the sight of Cragen hunched over his desk, Elliot left the NYPD internal website and opened a browser. In its search window, he typed 'romantic places new york city' then clicked on a site promising a list of the top ten of them.

_Let's see if any of these will work... #1: Central Park—nope... I investigated too many rapes and abductions there... #2: Top of the Empire State Building—no again... I handled a rape and a would-be suicide there... #3: Tiffany's—nothing romantic about a store I can't afford... #4: Brooklyn Botanical Gardens—never was assigned to Brooklyn so that might work... #5: Brooklyn Promenade—uh-uh... too many memories of the Manhattan skyline filled with smoke and ash... #6: Rockefeller Center Ice Rink—Kathy laughing while I fall on my ass... no way... #7: Metropolitan Museum of Art—me admiring famous art.. talk about a turd in a punchbowl... #8: Hudson River Park—where all the floaterswash ashore... no, thank you... #9: The Staten Island Ferry—if you're a tourist, maybe... to a commuter, it's nothing but a bus you can get seasick on... #10: Lincoln Center... hmmm.... dinner, a concert or play, a walk by the fountain... that might work...._

He clicked on the link and checked the calendar of upcoming events. After rejecting all the major date nights...

_Holy crap, they get _that_ much per ticket?_

... he found a Mostly Mozart concert on Tuesday, August 23rd.

_I have that day off... it's eighty bucks, but I think I can swing it... Kathy will be thrilled to have a chance to dress up and go to town... one of the many things I never did often enough... hell, I never did them at all...._

After another check to make sure Cragen wasn't spying on him, Elliot reached into his hip pocket and pulled out his wallet.

_Now, to order the tickets before it sinks in how much this is gonna cost me...._

He had just clocked the 'Submit Order' button when a shoe scuffing on the linoleum caught his attention. He looked up to see a man standing by the lockers.

_Five-eleven, two-ten...mid-twenties... Middle Eastern—not Arab, but not Iraqi... I'd need Couch to tell me exactly where he's from... black slacks, gray dress shirt... beard needs a trim... his cap is white and more boxy than a yarmulke._.._. and he's staring at Judith's desk...._

Elliot cleared his throat, and the man jerked then fell back against the lockers, obviously startled by the noise.

_And he's jumpy as hell...._

"I'm Detective Stabler. Can I help you?" Elliot asked as he rose to his feet.

The man stared at him for a moment then he said in heavily accented English, "I am wanting robbery detectives. They call—ask me to look at photos of thiefs."

Elliot started across the room, his lips forming a smile to reassure the nervous man as he pointed to the doors beneath the lounge.

"You took a wrong turn," he told the man. "This is Special Victims. Robbery is that way."

The man turned in the direction of Elliot's pointing.

"Go past the holding tank," Elliot said, "the room with the bars, and you'll be in Robbery. Got it?"

Without looking at Elliot and without saying another word, the man crossed the squadroom and left through the indicated doors.

"You're welcome," Elliot muttered at his departing back. "Come back any time."

He continued to muttered imprecations at the man while he looked over Otten's desk.

_Her sons' Bar Mitzvah photo... maybe seeing Jewish religious items angered him... tough... if he can't handle freedom of religion, he shouldn't be here... can't see anything else that would—wait a minute...._

Elliot reached out his hand and picked up a framed photo that was angled so it was visible only from her chair.

_You've got to be kidding...._

The photo was of Fontana, and was in keeping with Judith's belief that only out-of-date photos were safe to display where criminals could see them.

_Taken before his hair turned white... those gray curls look permed and styled... got the same satisfied smirk... everything else is wrong—beat-up green plaid shirt over green coveralls and dirty work gloves... he's standing by the cab of a truck... there's a city seal on the door with lettering over it... looks like it says 'Streets & San....' _

Elliot burst out laughing.

_It's a garbage truck... Fontana, undercover as a garbageman... or maybe he lied about the Chicago PD... that would explain his fancy clothes... he's overcompensating for his trash-hauling past...._

He set the photo back where he had found it.

_Fontana slinging trash... that's funny—really funny...._

Angel Kisses Bakery  
110 Clinton Street  
4 August

Thelma Jensen, the owner and chief baker, turned over her office to Munch and Loudoun so they could review her shop's security tapes. Of the shop's three cameras, one was aimed at the register, one at the rear door, and one at the street entrance.

_That one also shows the sidewalk outside... since this place is next door to the building on which the preschool snoop was spotted, there's a good chance he may have been caught on these tapes...._

The surveillance system was a VCR and monitor perched on a pair of short file cabinets behind Jensen's desk. Munch had commandeered the desk chair, leaving Loudoun the remote control and a metal folding chair.

_Seniority has its privileges...._

While she leaned forward to insert another cassette, Munch took a bite of the cherry turnover Jensen had urged on him.

_This is good... just tart enough... wonder if Connie bakes or if Otten is the family's designated baker...._

Loudoun hit the "play" button then sipped her cup of coffee, also supplied by Jensen.

"We've been through three days' worth of tapes," she said, "and we haven't seen any one carrying a chair. Want to bag it after this tape?"

Munch rocked back in the office chair he occupied as he considered the matter.

_Comfy chair, tasty snacks, air redolent with sugar and yeasts... I've suffered through worse...._

"Where are we going next?"

"Across the street. There's a consignment clothing store with a camera that shows the front of the target building."

Munch took another bite of his turnover.

_Used clothes... baked goods.... used clothes... free baked goods... I'd rather stay here... but that won't get the case closed...._

"If we don't see anything on this tape," he agreed, "we move on."

_The sacrifices I make for my job... shame there's no commendation for walking away from these turnovers...._

Loudoun hit the 'FWD' button, and they both settled back to view the sped-up version of a day on Clinton Street.

_Customers entering and leaving the shop... herky-jerky people who move like marionettes on speed.... but we're interested only in the ones who walk past this shop... the dieters, the diabetics, the ones with will power...._

"There."

He pointed at the monitor at a woman closing the driver's door of a dark gray minivan parked across the street. Loudoun paused the tape, catching the driver in the act of turning toward the camera.

"That long green cylinder she's carrying," Munch said. "Think it could be a folding chair?"

Loudoun advanced the tape slowly. The monitor showed the woman slinging the item over her shoulder, where it joined a large mesh tote bag. Donna paused the tape at that point.

"One of those canvas ones?" she asked. "Could be. They come in bags like that. But she's not a man."

Munch considered noting that the woman might be transgendered.

_But it doesn't matter... spying on little kids is suspicious regardless of your plumbing...._

"Fast-forward the tape," he said instead. "Let's see if we can spot the license number."

They watched the equivalent of two hours' of taped time, at which point the woman returned with her two bags. Just as she was pulling out of the parking space, a delivery van doubled-parking in front of the bakery and blocked the camera's view.

"Shit," Loudoun said, beating Munch to the expletive by scant milliseconds.

"At least we have a visual," he told her. "That with make and model of the minivan should get us some thing."

Loudoun wrote Thelma Jensen a receipt for the security tape while Munch paid for a half-dozen of the turnovers, refusing an offer from the proprietor to let him have them for free.

"You don't accept freebies?" Loudoun asked once they were outside.

Munch grinned at the question.

"I never turn down a free lunch. If I did, it wouldn't be free . However, when a citizen volunteers to help our investigation, paying is the polite thing to do."

Loudoun shrugged as though saying she thought Munch hopelessly old-fashioned.

_Fine... be that way... see if I share any of these turnovers with you...._

The security tapes at the consignment shop showed the same gray minivan parked in the same spot at the same day and time as the bakery tape had. The angle from its camera gave a clear view of the license plate. Munch called SVU while Loudoun arranged to borrow the tape.

"Olivia's back at the house," he told Loudoun as she bagged the tape. "I told her your suspect appears to be female."

"What did she say?"

" 'That doesn't make any sense.' She also said she'd run the plates if you'll get CSU to print out a photo of the driver from that tape."

_Then you can drop me at the station house and pick up Olivia... you two track down the female pervert... I sit with my feet up enjoying the AC... sounds fair to me...._


	13. Situation Far From Normal: part two

A/N: There are some bad words in this one. All temperatures are Fahrenheit. CPD is Chicago Police Department. If you don't know what an HMO is, be thankful. The Elizabeth Olivet incident referred to in this chapter is fron the season three L&O episode "Helpless". Kevin Drucker was in the L&O episode "Life Line" from season sixteen. Yes, there is a satellite District Attorney's Office in the Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. State Office Building in Harlem.

Residence of Donald Cragen  
Bensonhurst, NY  
9 August (Monday)

The air temperature, according to the thermometer on the porch, was 87 degrees in the sun. The water, according to the thermometer tied to the pool ladder in the deep end, was 80 degrees.

_The ideal temperature, if I remember right... it's been so long since I've done anything with the pool other than maintain it... but I have my orders—I'm supposed to float in it and enjoy my day-off...  
_  
Through the kitchen window, he could see Tullia intently doing something at the sink. She spied him looking in her direction then made shooing motions to remind him of his orders.

_She's making me dinner in exchange for me doing as I'm told...._

Per her instructions, Don had wheeled two wooden chaise lounges with their bright blue cushions from the garage and set them up poolside. On his second trip, he brought two low redwood tables suitable for iced-tea glasses and paperback books. The third trip involved two brand-new foam pool chairs, bright yellow with cup holders, part of the trunk-load of food and pool toys that Tullia had brought with her.

_I think she plans on us using these after dinner—watch the sunset or something... she got so excited when I mentioned I had a pool… she misses the one she had in Buffalo... Marge was the same way about water—that's why she had the pool put in... she said there was nothing more relaxing after a rough day than floating in her own private oasis...._

He set the chairs to floating in the water before settling onto one of the chaises.

_I'm not floating, but it should be close enough... I'd rather be in there helping... I'm not much for sunbathing, and there's too much on my mind for me to relax....  
_  
The past few days had been filled with frustration and worries.

_Fin and Couch, for one... their date rape case went south in a hurry...._

Interrogation Room  
Manhattan SVU  
5 August (Thursday)

Four people at Pencils, the club where Willow Salton had partied the previous Friday, recognized the man who left with her that night. Credit card receipts gave Tutuola and Sofarelli his name—Martin Jacobsmeier—and his address in North Bergen, New Jersey. Having his address, however, was not the same as having Jacobsmeier. Despite Fin and Couch's best efforts, they did not track him down until the morning of August 5th, when they caught up with him in the parking lot of B&G Novelties in Hoboken.

"Where have I been? I was on the road," he had told them. "I sell party supplies—luau kits, Oscar Night kits, pirate birthday kits, and the basics: themed paper goods, party favors, banners, novelty cups and straws."

Jacobsmeier had accompanied them willingly back to the station house. Fin took him to the Interrogation Room for questioning. Through the one-way glass, Cragen observed with Casey Novak at his elbow.

_Jacobsmeier is at the table... short, swarthy, bleached blond hair in spikes, and too much body wash—I could smell it when the door opened... Couch is seated across from him, Fin is on the move—good cop at eye-level, bad cop circling like a vulture... Jacobsmeier insisting he did nothing wrong... now, they're getting him to repeat his story... seeing if it changes or if they can catch him in a lie...._

"I already told all of this," Jacobsmeier was telling them. "If this Willow didn't want it, why did she unlock her door and let me in? Why did she show me where the can was so I could pee first? Why was she half-undressed when I got out? She did me right there in the hall—me backed against the wall, her complaining about some stupid rug sliding out from under her knees. Does that sound to you like she said 'No'?"

Inside the room, Fin's sneer deepened. Couch leaned forward as though drawn in by Jacobsmeier's story. The suspect glanced back and forth between them, trying to see both of them at once.

"And, after that, you two had sex in her bedroom," Couch said, "and Ms Salton never told you to stop or said she'd changed her mind?"

The suspect nodded his head vehemently.

"Right. She never said anything like that."

Fin set both fists on the table and leaned into Jacobsmeier's face.

"She didn't say anything because she was too drunk to talk. You carried her up to her place like a damn rag doll. We got witnesses who say she was passed out drunk."

Jacobsmeier's' eyes went wide. Fin leaned in closer.

"Unconscious women can't give their consent, and that makes what you did to her rape."

Jacobsmeier shot out of his chair, ducking Fin's attempt to shove him back into it. He backed into the nearest corner, his stare imploring Sofarelli for help.

"She wasn't drunk and I didn't rape her. If she's saying that, she's lying. You gotta believe me."

"I believe you," Couch assured him while Fin glared at the two of them.

"'Ah believe yew'," he said, mimicking Couch's East Texan accent. "Maybe you two should get a room."

"And maybe you should take a break," Couch shot back, "get some fresh air."

_This is where the bad cop storms out, leaving the good one to listen to the suspect tell his story one more time... and leaving me to wonder how much is play-acting and how much is a good detective burning out...._

The door flew open and Fin stormed through it. He grabbed it and flung it shut behind him, his anger vanishing the moment it closed.

"Fin, that looked really good," Cragen told him.

Fin leaned against the far wall and said nothing. He then crossed his arms as though closing the captain out. Cragen decided to let it lie while, on the other side of the one-way window, Couch turned on the charm for the suspect.

_Jacobsmeier is still insisting Salton was conscious and active... I hate cases like this...._

Cragen let Couch and the suspect talk until Jacobsmeier had run through his story again then he rapped on the glass to summon Sofarelli from the room. When he had joined the observers, Cragen asked, "What do you two think about Jacobsmeier?"

Couch shuddered as though shaking off any trace of Jacobsmeier.

"Thirty more years and a butt-load of cash," he replied, "and he'll be Fontana."

From the other side of the room, Cragen heard Fin mutter, "Don't make me agree with you."

_Go on—agree with him... one point in common won't kill you... I'll even join in...._

Cragen hooked a thumb in Jacobsmeier's direction.

"Put him in a hand-sewn silk shirt," he told them, "and I can see it."

Both detectives gaped at Cragen before nodding their agreement. Cragen let the silence stand for a second then he asked again about the suspect's veracity.

"I hate to say it, sir, but I think he's telling the truth," Couch replied.

"So far as he knows it," Fin added. "Salton might have been too drunk to consent, even if she was walking and talking.

_And sucking... don't forget the sucking...._

Couch asked, "Aren't blackouts more from long-time alcoholism?"

"Novice drinkers also have them," Cragen noted. "They drink too much too fast, either from inexperience or pressure. Short-term memory goes first then they vomit and pass out then, if they're unlucky, they die."

"Salton said this was the first time anything like this had happened," Fin said from his side of the room.

Casey cleared her throat then said, "I need to determine if Salton was able to consent or not. She says she drank enough to feel hung over, and she doesn't remember anything that happened. Romeo here admits they both were drinking, but says she was a willing participant, which may means she was a consenting participant who doesn't remember she consented."

She pointed at Cragen.

"You say she could have been ambulatory and functional, and still have a memory lapse."

"An en bloc blackout," Cragen replied. "One of the many joys of alcohol consumption."

His sarcasm made her chuckle.

"I'll take your word for it, Don, but I'm not okaying an arrest based on what we have now. I need more."

Cragen stifled a sigh.

"Okay, Casey—what do you need from us?

"I need that stupid, slippery rug," she told them. "If Salton got on her knees and willingly performed oral sex that night, I can't argue she was too drunk to consent. Find out if she spit or dribbled."

Fin's sour grimace matched the tone of his complaint.

"Damn, this case is nothing but splooge."

"Just get the rug," Cragen told him. "While you there, ask Ms Salton if she remembers anything else about that night. Some alcoholic blackouts clear up with a little prompting, and you now have the 'he said' version."

Both detectives nodded then they left the room. Cragen glanced again at Jacobsmeier.

_Looks like he's telling his story to the officer guarding him... that might mean he's innocent... guilty people know better...._

Poolside  
Residence of Donald Cragen  
9 August

_And we're still waiting to see if the rug confirms Jacobsmeier or not... Fin said the lab told him Tuesday at the earliest... that wasn't the only case that went weird on us this week...._

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
5 August (Thursday)

On his way back from the interrogation room, Cragen stopped to talk to Benson at her desk. Elliot, who had his feet up while he read the Ledger's sports page, lowered the paper enough to listen in.

"What happened with your preschool voyeur?" Cragen asked.

"Oh, you'll love this," Olivia replied. "After I got the address for the minivan John and Donna found, Donna and I headed to the East Village to talk to the driver.

"What did you find out?"

"Our 'pervert' is a Margery Walsingham, mother of Brianna Walsingham, a student at the preschool. Turns out Walsingham is worried the teachers aren't giving her child sufficient enrichment so she was putting a stop watch to their outdoor play activities."

"'Play activities'," Cragen repeated. "What's wrong with calling it recess?"

Olivia arched an eyebrow then said, "'Schools can charge more for it if it has a fancy name. Anyway, Walsingham told us that...."

Olivia checked her notepad.

"'Physical activity is all well and good, but I'm paying for French and art and eco-awareness, not jungle gym. I heard some of those teachers stay outside longer than the scheduled play times so they don't have to teach.'"

"That's what she said?"

"Word for word. She even showed us her log. According to it, the morning play activity was forty-seven seconds too long on August 2nd. She plans to ask for a refund on her tuition."

"So," Cragen asked, "what did you do to the anal Mrs. Walsingham?"

Olivia chuckled. "We threatened to charge her with trespass if she tried spying again. I told her to take her concerns to the school's director; fixing the problem has to be easier than finding a new preschool."

From behind the sport page, Elliot said, "She should try Sts. Peter and Paul. Sister Mary Anthony could give the Corps lessons in time management."

"I doubt parochial school has sufficient cachet for Mrs. Walsingham's little girl and her mother's ambitions," his partner replied. "Anyway, Donna checked with the school administrator; Walsingham is a known pain in the ass—always complaining about something. We'll get the paperwork to you after lunch."

Poolside  
Residence of Donald Cragen  
9 August

_Spying on your kid's preschool—whatever happened to parent-teacher conferences?_

The thought of spying sent Cragen's attention to the dining room window. There, hidden from view by a fold of the drapery, was the web cam he had placed to record his backyard.

_That's camera #1... #2 is in the living room and #3 is hidden in the bedroom... put there in case Beale tries anything between now and next Monday when the promotion list comes out... they're turned off for tonight… I can explain having surveillance cameras—threats from perps, for one... no way I could explain if Tullia found them recording us...._

Don turned away from the window, and focused his attention on the sunlight glinting on the pool water.

_I need to think about something else… someone else's troubles… how about Judith? She spent almost the whole shift Thursday worrying about Fontana's surgery... good thing it went well or I'm certain she would have imploded and taken most of the squadroom with her... then I had to tell her Bronx South Narcotics said 'no way in hell were they going stop everything and make some fired cop happy...._

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
6 August (Friday)

Cragen left his office dreading his role as the bearer of bad news. Otten and Lake were at their desks, pouring over their case folders, interview notes, and database reports, trying to find enough similarities to match the suspect descriptions to a suspect.

Before he could say anything, Chester spun his chair to face his captain's approach.

"If you've got a moment, sir," he said, "we want to run something past you."

Five minutes later, Cragen summarized what the detectives had laid out for him.

"You want Judith and Sue Lynde to act as decoys on the same routes used by your two victims next Tuesday early morning. You'll have detectives in close communication with each of them, and three teams of uniforms in street clothes stationed in the vicinity for backup. If your suspect bites, you'll bring him in and let forensics make the match to the evidence."

Both Judith and Lake nodded.

"Why wait until Tuesday?" Cragen asked. "Why not tonight or over the weekend?"

Chester laid his hand on a stack of folders with Brooklyn case IDs.

"Because the Greenwood Cemetery rapist always struck on the same night of the week. We're assuming our guy and him are one and the same."

"Why?"

"The little we have from the victims," Judith replied, "both here and Brooklyn, all matches. We're looking for someone possibly African-American, tall, thin, smells of fried food or bacon. Every one of the attacks were blitz and from behind; he grabbed his victims right before they reached an alley then he dragged them into it for the rape."

_That's not much to go on….  
_  
"And you're thinking he switched to Manhattan because…?"

Judith again supplied the answer.

"We don't know. Maybe he moved or changed jobs."

Cragen turned to Lake.

"When you worked the Greenwood Cemetery cases, did you try decoys?"

"Yes, sir, after the fourth rape. We got nothing and he did two victims the next week. After that, the attacks stopped."

Cragen stuck his hands in his pockets and peered through the window while he considered the matter.

"Get me your equipment and personnel requests. I'll make sure you have what you need by Monday."

_I'll have to twist some arms to make it come together that quickly...._

He saw the satisfaction brought by his support brighten both detectives' faces.

_And because they now are doing something... hitting the streets beats beating your head against paperwork any day of the week...._

Judith's smile vanished as soon as he told her about Captain Dillman's refusal to go after Crespo's gang.

"I expected that," she told him. "It's okay. We'll cope."

Cragen's breath caught in his throat.

_Please don't assume those uniforms at the hospital will be part of your 'coping'... I'm juggling budget items as it is to keep them there...._

His consternation lasted through Chester's question about how they planned to cope. Judith's answer eased his worry.

"We're outfitting Joe's co-op for his physical therapy and hiring bodyguards cross-trained in for patient support," Judith explained. "Praesidium Services supplies them to foreign leaders and corporate executives with health problems."

Chester let out a low whistle while Cragen said, "That can't be cheap."

Judith rolled her eyes.

"Well, it certainly isn't covered under Joe's CPD HMO. Nick—that's Joe's brother—is handling the equipment and building mods. I'm doing the hiring. Once everything is in place, Joe won't have to leave his building until he's well enough to protect himself."

She punctuated her reply with a confident-looking smile.

_Except the skin over her jaw is too tight and her eyes are a bit glassy... it's a good front—I have to look hard to see the fear behind that smile...._

Poolside  
Residence of Donald Cragen  
9 August

Don shifted position on the chaise lounge, its cushions no longer comfortable.

_I know all about that fear... the kind you keep hidden... the kind you can barely admit to yourself is there... Tullia asked me earlier if something was bothering me... I was thinking about Sunday—if I'd be better off making plans for the day and inviting Beale to join me or if I should let him steer things then watch him like a hawk... I guess my face showed my worries... thankfully, she believed me when I said I was thinking about work... she told me to stop it and relax, but I can't... I'm stuck worrying about work or wondering if I'm paranoid or if I've taken enough precautions...._

He glanced again at the dining room window.

_Those web cams aren't a precaution—they won't stop anything… if everything else fails, all they'll do is provide proof I was right about Beale... they're like Liz Olivet's tape recorder...._

It had happened fifteen years ago, back when he was in Homicide. Dr. Olivet, distressed that a well-regarded gynecologist had molested one of her patients, had set out to trap him in the act. According to the statement she gave Detectives Cerreta and Logan, Olivet thought that she, a trained psychologist who worked with abuse victims, could counter whatever ruses the doctor might use on his victims.

_She was wrong... he shot her full of Diazapam, rendering her immobile and helpless, then raped her right there on the examining table... afterward, she went straight to Phil and Mike and gave them the tape-recorded proof of her attack..._

Don shook his head at the remembered sight of Dr. Olivet sitting in the interview room, her shoulders hunched forward, her head down, arms crossed before her—the textbook posture of a victim seeking to protect herself after the fact.

_At the time, I was horrified... how could someone so smart do something so stupid? How could she deliberately put herself in that kind of danger? Now, I know how... Liz believed there was no course of action... this hump had violated not only her patient , but the trust Liz had built with her patient... Liz believed she had to make it right... it's the same thing I'm facing... I tried all the other ways... now, there's only one way left... when I saw Liz last week, I almost told her about Beale and what I'm planning... but I knew it would bring up bad memories... I can't hurt her like that... but I can learn from her mistakes...._

The sound of the back door, its hinges notifying the neighborhood that they needed serious greasing, brought Don out of his thoughts. He turned his attention to see Tullia, her short cotton beach coat sporting a large pink stain below her right breast, standing in the door way.

"You hungry?" she asked.

"Starving," he called back. "What happened to you?"

She glanced down at her front.

"A tomato spritzed all over me. You need to sharpen your knives."

Her reply drew him out of the lounge chair and to her side.

_She lives in a world where red means tomato juice, not blood... God, how I need that right now...._

Office of Jack McCoy, EADA  
One Hogan Place  
9 August

In the privacy of his office, or in as much privacy as the wood-framed glass gave him, Jack McCoy ran through his closing statement for the Shaughnessy murder trial.

"You'll remember Mr. Doheny," he recited, the twelve faces of the jury fixed firmly in his mind's eye, "the defense witness who told us under oath how the defendant, his nephew, was working in his grocery store from six p.m. to midnight the night of Kelly Barton's murder. He said this knowing we had copies of all of Kevin Shaughnessy's time cards, including the one from the day of the murder, the one that showed Shaughnessy didn't clock in until seven-fifteen that evening."

_Point at the stack of time cards on the table...._

"You'll remember how Mr. Doheny told us his nephew had forgotten to punch in and that Mr. Doheny added an hour and fifteen minutes' worth of wages to his nephew's paycheck. You'll also remember how the IRS provided a copy of Shaughnessy's W-2, which showed a discrepancy in gross pay of twelve dollars and eighty-one cents...."

_Hold up the W-2 for the jury to see again..._

"... exactly what Mr. Doheny paid his nephew for an hour and fifteen minutes of work stocking shelves at his store."

_Lower eyebrows and glare as though angered by what I'm about to say...._

"So, I'm sure you'll remember how Mr. Doheny lied through his teeth in an effort to help Kevin Shaughnessy beat a murder conviction."

McCoy picked up his pen and drew a line though the verb and prepositional phrase in that last sentence.

_As much as I want to say 'lied', I can't call Doheny a liar unless I want his nephew's murder conviction overturned... better make that 'misled'....  
_  
He was making the change in his notes when the door to his office opened.

_Trouble comes in many forms... right now, it's six feet, six inches tall with a Southern accent and a scowl...._

McCoy set his legal pad aside to greet his boss.

"'Afternoon, Arthur. What can I do for you?"

Arthur stopped a few feet from Jack's desk.

"How about you tell me Borgia found out who requested Fontana's psych review."

Jack leaned back in his chair.

_I'd rather look lazy than get a crick in my neck...._

"Sorry, Arthur," he told his boss. "Alex ran through every office in the Trial Division, both Legal and Support, then she ran through Admin Services, Investigations, and Appeals. Nothing in the phone logs, nothing in the fax records. Hate to say it, but she got skunked."

"Skunked?"

The DA's scowl twisted into a big grin.

"Sounds like you've been hanging around me too long."

Branch's good humor then vanished as fast as it had come.

"I'm not happy," he told McCoy, "knowing someone used my office to help ruin a detective's career."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Arthur. Fontana's problems didn't come from that psych review. They came from those unresolved complaints in his file."

"Still," Branch replied, "it's a bad reflection on this office—"

"And your reelection?"

Branch waved away the insinuation.

"C'mon, Jack—I'm not solely driven by a need to win votes. Sometimes, I act because I don't like being used."

"By some unknown person here or by Fernando Martinez?" Jack asked.

Branch shrugged.

"Could be Martinez. Fontana worked the Bronx for fifteen years before transferring to Manhattan Homicide. That's plenty of time for his methods to have raised some hackles on the Bronx DA."

Branch settled into a chair across from McCoy then folded his hands on his stomach.

"Jack, maybe we have this backwards. Let's say Martinez saw the chance to get back at Fontana for messing up a trial or three. Maybe he had someone he knows from this office make that call just in case he needed to spread the blame."

"In that case," Jack noted, "Alex still should have found a record of that call."

Branch glared at his fingers as he nodded. Jack opened his mouth to say something soothing when Branch's gaze snapped up to meet his.

"Did Alexandra check with the Northern Office?"

The question took Jack aback.

_The satellite office up in Harlem... why didn't I think of that?  
_  
"I don't know," he admitted. "I didn't ask."

Branch rose to his feet and frowned down at McCoy.

"Then ask."

Office of Lt. Anita Van Buren  
Twenty-seventh Precinct  
9 August

Anita Van Buren let her office door swing shut behind her.

_The end of another shift... now, I can go home and listen to my boys tell me about their summer jobs... listen to Donald gripe about how slow Mondays are at his store... I can remember how good it is to have a life that's not all dead bodies and paperwork...._

As she exited the squadroom, Ed Green fell into step next to her.

"Lieu?" he asked, "can I talk to you about something?"

"Sure, Ed."

He pushed open the door to the stair well and held it for her.

"You remember Kevin Drucker?" he asked. "That real estate agent who killed the reporter?"

Van Buren reached the lower landing before she placed the name.

"Yeah, yeah—I do. Drucker killed her because that prison gang, L-12, had their hooks in his son. Didn't he plead out on the murder to get his son away from them?"

Green nodded. When he said nothing further, Van Buren paused on the landing and raised her eyebrows at him.

_C'mon, Ed... tell me why I need to remember Drucker...._

Green moved down two steps, putting his face level with hers.

"I got a call late last night," he told her, "from someone claiming to be Drucker. He said he'd heard Joe was being targeted by Double-Dom, and he promised to take care of him for us."

Van Buren pictured Drucker, a successful businessman with an entitled attitude who quickly broke under the dual threats from the DA's office and the gang.

_That man can't be in a position to order a hit... he had 'prison girlfriend' written all over him...._

"Drucker say why or how?" she asked.

Green glanced up the stairs then down them as though afraid of being overheard.

"On account of the deal McCoy worked out for him," he replied. "He said his son was able to move away and start a new life so he wants repay us for that."

"Any other details?"

"No, not a one."

"Ed, exactly what did Drucker tell you?"

Green pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket.

"'Remember me?'" he read aloud, "'I'm the one who was smuggling phones. I heard about your partner and a certain drug dealer. You were straight with me so don't worry about that pervert any more.' The caller hung up before I could say anything."

"So Drucker didn't identify himself or the drug dealer?"

"No, but I know it was Drucker, and we both know which pervert drug dealer he meant."

Green spread his hands open before him as though begging for help.

"If what he told me comes true, and Anacacis gets killed, and if the investigation finds out Drucker called me, it's gonna look like I approved it."

_That's a lot of 'ifs' in one sentence... I still don't see Drucker arranging a murder...._

Van Buren met his gaze then smiled soothingly at him.

"Ed, Drucker wouldn't call you from a prison pay phone. He'd use an untraceable cell phones, maybe one he smuggled in himself."

The attempted joke failed to dissuade her detective.

"Maybe," he agreed, "but now there's a number on my LUDs I can't explain, and that ain't good."

"That will only matter if someone checks your phone. Right now, all you have is a long-distance call from someone who told you a story. You can't say for sure he's Drucker, and you don't know if he can carry out that promise."

"And, if I check it out," Ed told her, "that will only draw attention to Drucker and to me."

"So," Van Buren said, drawing out the syllable as a hint to accept her next words as law, "you need to sit tight and wait. If and when anything happens to Anacacis, then we'll worry about it."

It took longer than she liked, but Green finally nodded.

"Now," she said, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Green muttered something that sounded like "You, too, ma'am," before he headed down to the main floor of the station house. Van Buren followed at a slower pace.

_It never pays to borrow trouble from the future... it always gets here soon enough by itself...._

Intensive Care Unit  
Mercy General Hospital  
9 August

Dinner had been an hour earlier.

_Cream of something soup, applesauce, cherry Jello... I'm dreaming about real food... can't be much longer—all the drains, tubes, and IVs have been removed... everyone says I'm doing great, but I hurt like hell... back, ribs, arm, gut, hips... and I'm weak as a kitten—can't even walk across the room without wobbling... and right now, that's exactly what I need to do...._

Joe grabbed the bar hanging above his bed.

_Now, swing my legs left and pull myself up until I'm sitting with my legs off the bed... hold the damn walker with both hands—make sure what's left of my left hand has a good grip—and lean all my weight on it until I have my feet on the floor...._

As soon as his feet were planted, he set his sights on his goal.

_One foot in front of the other... short, even steps... take it slow and keep my weight on the walker... it's only ten feet, maybe twelve... it's easier than when I was dragging my IV stand with me, but it still ain't gravy...._

Fontana rounded the partition that separated the toilet from the rest of the room.

_Put all my weight on my right arm... let go of the walker with my left and grab the hand rail... shift my weight that direction—ignore how my arm aches... push the walker to the right... get this damn gown out of the way... hell of a lot of effort just to take a leak...._

When he had finished, he shifted to his right to wash up and to check his appearance in the mirror over the sink.

_Got so much stubble, can't tell what's mustache and what's beard... half my face is swollen and bruised... the rest of me is just as colorful... and the scars—I look like I went through a meat slicer...._

Joe glanced at his left hand where it rested on the edge of the sink.

_My thumb, two fingers, some stitches... it aches about an inch above those stitches... phantom pain, but it hurts just the same... when I pointed out I can't wear a wedding ring, Judith said it didn't matter to her... Munch told me something about Jewish tradition... how rings were worn on the right index finger and only by women... I'm going to borrow that tradition—wear my ring on my right index finger... hope no one minds...._

He watched his reflection attempt a smile.

_I'm worrying about a wedding ring... when I got here, the odds of my dying were 3 to 1... wonder how much Ed would have put on that bet?_

Joe grabbed his walker and began the slow trek back across the room. When he was back in bed, he laid his head on his pillow and closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the hospital room with its TV tuned to the financial news and the officer posted at its door.

_Damn, everything hurts... Doc says it will be at least ten weeks before I can throw away the walking aids... until then, I'm nothing but a slow-moving target... a sniper on a roof... a drive-by shooting... I won't stand a chance....  
_  
That thought made him angry, but his next one made him furious.

_Doc also said I can return to work by the end of the year... if I had work to go to... my appeal is stalled—Dworkin can't find anyone who might have messed with those complaints... all this is Balzano's fault, even if I can't prove it... if he hadn't terminated me, I wouldn't be lying here with half my hand missing and the rest of me held together with stitches and metal screws... it's like the bastard wanted me dead...._


	14. Invitations and Operations

A/N: The methods and techniques depicted in this story are driven by this story; they do not represent the methods and techniques of the NYPD or any other police department. A sidewalk shed is covered scaffolding that protects pedestrians from construction debris. The Westside Pistol Range is real, as is the Avalon (it's closed now, but it was open during the time in which this story is set.) Club Vipre is fictional.

There are a couple of bad words in this chapter.

Residence of John Munch  
806 West 183rd Street  
10 August (Tuesday)

Force of habit impelled Munch to put his keys, cell phone, cuffs, and service weapon where they each belonged as soon as he had closed his apartment door.

_If I need to leave in a hurry, I don't have to hunt for them...._

While dumping the day's mail on his desk, he noticed a square parchment envelope, its addresses written in Judith's hand, as the stack landed on the wooden surface.

_Already on my calendar... Connie's serving as Otten's Maid of Honor... Matron of Honor? ... maybe Divorcee of Honor? Society should drop those titles and switch to Best Woman...._

John then collapsed into his desk chair and pulled a dime-store stationery envelope from his jacket pocket.

_Sent to me care of SVU by Mrs. Samuel P. Stacknik... one of the few I talked to who recalled Amy Choi's murder... she promised to get me the names of two neighbors who had retired and moved away... she said they might remember more than she did..._

He slit open the envelope with an opener he had liberated from Frank Pembleton's desk back in Baltimore.

_Having it vanish without a trace drove Frank nuts... he searched everywhere, questioned everyone... when Meldrick finally told him to forget about the fucking letter opener, Frank coldly informed him that said letter opener should stop procreating and return to its proper place on his desk... I never confessed... we needed the diversion and I needed a letter opener...._

Inside the cheap envelope was a sheet of lined note paper:

_Dear Detective Munch,_

_I thought I had the addresses in my address book, but all I found were their New York ones. Finally, I thought to check my Christmas card list and there they were. I apologize for taking so long. I hope you find that little girl's murderer._

_Sincerely,_

_Mary Stacknik_

Below her signature were the addresses for Ed Perkins of Melbourne, and Michael Tsonganis of Tarpon Springs, both in Florida. John booted his computer and, using a remote connection to his NYPD account, managed to match both names to those addresses and also to current phone numbers.

_Now, to call Perkins and Tsonganis and ask if they remember an older Caucasian male, medium height and build... someone who wore a gray parka and maybe had a little too much interest in young Oriental girls...._

En route to the Thirteenth Precinct  
230 E. 21st Avenue  
10 August

Elliot picked up his partner in front of her building at a quarter after three a.m. Olivia slid into the passenger seat. Her expression brightened at the sight of the container of coffee he held out to her.

"You are wonderful," she told him as she took it from his hand.

"Just making sure you're awake and aware," he replied. "You can't watch Judith's back with your eyes closed."

"Very funny."

Elliot pulled out of the loading area where he had met her then he headed for Broadway. While he drove and betweens her sips, Olivia told him what he had missed when he had left early for a counseling session with Kathy and Dr. Jackson.

"Cragen vetoed Lake's name for the operation," Olivia told her partner. "It's now Operation Greenwood."

_Boring name...._

"What? Cap didn't like Operation Rapist Beatdown?"

"He said something about the media, public relations, and his ass in a sling."

Elliot grinned at the thought.

"Talk about a wet blanket," he said. "What else did I miss?"

"Chester laid out tonight's plan. You'll be with Sue and Howie. She'll start at Caleb's Diner on West Nineteenth and will head to the Metro station at Twenty-third and Fifth Avenue. Her niece waits tables at Caleb's there so Sue was able to borrow a uniform from them."

"That works. What about you?"

"I'll be with Judith and Chester. This way, each decoy has her partner and another SVU detective backing them up. Chester arranged for several unmarked cars to be parked along the two routes with officers from the One-Three behind the wheels. We'll use them as rolling tails if needed. We'll all have radios, and Judith and Sue will be wired so we can hear what they hear."

Elliot turned onto Broadway and headed south.

"What if no one bites?"

"Judith is posing as a power walker so she'll just keep walking the neighborhood. Sue will wait a couple minutes then exit the subway and walk the same route in reverse as though she were heading home."

_Interesting plan..._

Olivia then shifted in her seat until she faced him.

"Now, you want the real news?"

_Also known as office gossip... no, thanks...._

"How about the radio?" he asked. "Think you can find some Lynyrd Skynyrd?"

She bit her lower lip, her signal that he was being a pain. Elliot kept his eyes on the road and submitted with a wry smile.

_Okay—gossip it is...._

"Did you look at your mail today?'

Elliot shook his head.

_I threw it on the counter... why rush to open bills?_

"Judith sent out her wedding invitations," Olivia said. "I got one; you probably did, too."

_She's really going through with it? Damn...._

"The ceremony is on the twenty-ninth at noon," Olivia continued. "That's a Sunday. It's at the Veneto Club down in the Financial District; Fontana must be a member."

"Will he be out of the hospital by then?"

Olivia nodded. "Judith says he's moving to a regular room tomorrow—I mean today—and he should be discharged by the end of this week, but that's not what I wanted to tell you."

Olivia leaned closer, eager to share with him.

"You know how Judith's been trying to talk with her son and his wife about their objections to Fontana?"

Elliot nodded.

_How could I not know? Most of her recent personal calls have been about that... it's none of my business, but women seem to eat this up... Munch once claimed office gossip started during World War II when women working on the war effort had to give up their radio soap operas... every woman in the room told him to shut up...._

His partner interrupted his train of thought.

"Well, I think her daughter-in-law called Judith right at shift-change—maybe she got a wedding invitation in the mail, maybe they finally connected. All I know is Judith shouted 'You stay right there; we're having this out now' into her phone then she told Munch she was heading to Derek's place before rushing out the door."

Olivia peered at him, her eyes wide and so expectant that Elliot struggled to find an appropriate comment.

"Wow."

"Exactly," Olivia agreed as she twisted back into her seat. "You know, Donna thinks he's seeing someone."

"Who? John?"

"Yes. She says he's on the phone a lot with someone he won't identify."

Elliot stifled a sigh as he turned onto West Fifty-Seventh Street.

_I don't care... and you've been getting the same sort of calls... I've ignored them because I know what you'd do if I gossiped about them...._

Olivia sipped her coffee and stared out the window for a moment then she said, "Do you think he might be seeing one of Judith's relatives? He seems awfully caught up in her life, and he did attend that family party she missed."

Elliot bit back another sigh.

_Last time I talked with John, there wasn't anyone at all... on the other hand... yeah, why not? Call it payback for you and Donna doing to John what I didn't do to you... got to remember not to smile while saying it...._

He kept his gaze forward as he put on his best poker face.

"Maybe John is dating Judith's mother. I hear he's a fan of her paintings."

Olivia spewed coffee across the dashboard, exactly the reaction he wanted. Without turning his attention from the road, Elliot reached behind him for the roll of paper towels he kept for emergencies then he handed it to a gasping Olivia.

"Here," he told her, "you look like you need this."

She snatched it from his hands and tore a sheet from it to mop her face. Muttering a few choice words, Olivia then wiped up the coffee splattered across the dash.

"You're so cute when you spit," he told her.

The comment earned him a snarl. Elliot took a right onto Park Avenue while Olivia finished mopping up. She then tossed the roll of towels on his back seat.

_Good... it's safer for me if her hands are empty...._

"If what you said is true," he said, his words carefully chosen, "then Munch isn't the only person hiding a romance."

His partner's expression lost all trace of annoyance.

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

He let his monosyllable hang just to see what she would do next.

_I'm betting she'll change the subject...._

Olivia stared out the windshield for a few moments then her gaze locked on his face.

"You mean me."

_Should have known better... Olivia never backs down from a challenge...._

"Yeah," he said, taking his gaze from the road long enough to connect with hers. "Someone who calls you makes you smile. Autopsy reports and lab results never do that."

She ducked her head as a smile parted her lips. Elliot wondered if she also was blushing, but the street and dash lights were too dim to show it.

"Dave Viks," she told him. "He's a specialist manager with ACS. Widowed, two kids. I met him last month."

Before Elliot could say anything, she added, "We're meeting for dinner tonight. You and Kathy want to join us?"

The offer jolted Elliot.

_Wow... this is serious...._

"Sure," he replied then, unable to resist one more dig, he said, "but wouldn't you rather take this Viks guy to McMullen's, and have him meet all of us at once?"

Olivia snorted her disdain at the idea.

_Yeah, more like scare him permanently away...._

"If Kathy's free, then it's a date," he replied. "Remind me to call her and ask."

Elliot counted to two before the comeback he expected came back at him.

"Call Kathy," Olivia told him, "and see if she's free—and turn left here; Twenty-first is one-way the other way."

Elliot made a left turn.

_Your wish is my command... and anyone who makes you smile is okay in my book...._

Muster Room  
Thirteenth Precinct  
10 August

Benson's earpiece and the portable radios Officers Felten and Saunders were to use during Operation Greenwood failed during the equipment check. Olivia handed the earpiece back to Chester with a few choice words.

_Lousy piece of crap... why does One P.P. make us work with such unreliable, antiquated equipment?_

While Lake and Thad Sinclair, the desk sergeant, hunted up replacements from the precinct's equipment, she sat at the back of the muster room and observed her surroundings.

_Looks pretty much like the ones I attended roll-call in—metal chairs with beat-up black plastic seats... two-man tables barely big enough to share with your partner... the borough map on the wall surrounded by printouts of precinct news, FINEST messages, and personnel info... the memorial wall with its photos of fallen officers... podium up front... officious sergeants and lieutenants always hide behind it... good ones perch on a table or roam the floor while handing out assignments and reading announcements... they observe their people... checking everything from uniform cleanliness to the whites of their eyes... it's better to catch a problem in the muster room than have it blow up on the street...._

Around Olivia, the SVU detectives and the officers who would deploy with them waited for Lake to return. Several of them, Elliot and Howie included, had gathered at the front of the room to discuss pennant races. Sue, in her borrowed gray waitress uniform, was seated at a table halfway back with a female officer wearing jeans with a Jets t-shirt and cap. Sue had introduced her to Olivia as Jenny Price, a classmate from the Academy. Olivia could hear the two of them comparing ex-boyfriends while they waited.

_We all have our ways to avoid the jitters... for Sue, it's talking...._

Judith was by herself at the room's wall map.

_She's dressed for power-walking—black Lycra shorts with an over-sized yellow tank top over a red sports bra... headband and clips keeping her hair back... fake iPod strapped to her upper arm, its ear buds draped around her neck—it's really a radio that Lake borrowed from Narcotics—their gear always works... the bra is a nice touch... nothing says "Notice me!" like red... and that tank top hides her hardware and ID... it doesn't hide those faded scars on her back—look like gunshot wounds... either she isn't self-conscious or she thinks they make her look more vulnerable...._

Judith's vivid clothing was in stark contrast to Olivia's black slacks, dark gray cotton sweater set, her drab colors matched by the clothing worn by the other SVU detectives.

_Don't want our suspect spotting the supporting players before he sees our two stars...._

Olivia watched the older woman trace the route she was to walk with her index finger.

_I forget she's only been working this borough for a few months... a review of the terrain is a good idea... I drove it earlier today...__ most of her route, one side or the other, is lined with sidewalk sheds... plenty of dark cover to hide in... Judith doesn't appear nervous... wonder if she'd like company... take her mind off things... I could ask about her wedding plans... or her family's reaction to them—hey, I'm entitled to some curiosity...._

With that thought as an excuse, Olivia left her chair to join Judith at the map. Judith paused with her finger midway between avenues to greet her.

"I did a pass through this area on my way here," she told Olivia. "Most of my route seems designed for crime."

Olivia put her finger on the map a block east of Judith's.

"Try not to get jumped here," she said, tapping the location of the Westside Rifle and Pistol Range. "Last thing we need is bad publicity for the only gun range in Manhattan."

Judith chuckled at the suggestion.

"I'll inform the perpetrator about that restriction. I'm sure he'll comply."

"Yeah, right."

Olivia waited a moment before changing the topic.

"I got your invitation," she told Judith, "and you can count me in. Is anyone throwing you a shower?"

The first part of Olivia's sentence brought a smile to Judith's face, but the question caused Judith to roll her eyes in dismay.

"No, and that's okay. I'm juggling enough as it is."

Olivia opened her mouth to ask, but Judith needed no prompting.

"Joe's parents are leaving for six months in Italy the first of September, so it was either have the wedding before they left or wait until next year. Then, everything with Joe hit, plus Dante and Janet are buying my house, and their apartment lease is up September 15th. So, I've got Joe coming home from the hospital, the ceremony and reception to arrange, his relatives coming for the wedding, me moving out of my house, my son moving in, and who knows what else."

Judith slumped against the wall and gave an exaggerated sigh.

"I don't have time for real showers, let alone parties."

"I'm exhausted just listening," Olivia told her. "I hope your family's helping."

"Oh, my family's been great."

Olivia raised an eyebrow.

"It didn't sound that way right before you left the squadroom."

This time, Judith's sigh was not meant as comedy.

"Cammie blames Joe," she explained, "for her parents not getting back together after the last of their many separations. It's easier than facing the fact that her parents are both miserable wastes of space who lied to her about them reconciling. Derek is taking her side, which I understand, but he's also afraid Joe will revert to type and dump me right after he says 'I do.'"

"I can see why your son might worry," Olivia said. "Derek hasn't seen him worshiping the ground you walk on."

Judith blushed in response.

_Well, he does... the Smugtana I know would never fetch lunch or volunteer to help with someone else's case... doesn't mean he won't hump your bridesmaids, but I will give him credit for how he's been acting so far...._

"That's why I rushed out," Judith continued. "Given the way both Derek and Cammie have been ducking my calls, I wanted to catch them while I had the chance. It took some doing, but they promised to come over to Joe's for lunch Sunday. Maybe we can hash this out."

Olivia nodded at the wisdom of Judith's plan.

"Good thinking. How did you manage it?"

Judith drew herself up to her full height, half a head shorter than Olivia.

"I reminded Derek," she said, "that I was his mother, and he'd better be there."

Olivia stifled a laugh.

_Adopted or not... stubbornness is a family trait…._

"So," Judith said, "while you guys work the double for shift change Sunday, I'll be convincing my son and his wife that Joe and I know what we're doing. Should be fun."

Olivia started to reply, but a male voice from across the muster room interrupted her.

"Benson? I have your replacement."

The voice belonged to Sgt. Sinclair, who had returned with Lake while Judith was talking. Olivia took the new earpiece from him with a "Thank you" then she plugged it into its feed. She next switched on the unit attached to her belt to see if the replacement also would crap out. Static followed by Chester's voice check proved the last impediment to Operation Greenwood was now gone.

_I guess it's time to hit the streets...._

Operation Greenwood  
W. Twentieth Street & Seventh Avenue  
10 August 5:20 a.m.

Otten's route began in a residential area, tree-lined and filled with the hum of window air conditioners. After a few minutes of warm-up stretches performed under a street light, she headed down the north sidewalk, her path straight and swift as she walked, her bare arms and bright clothing a beacon in the predawn dark.

Lake was a half-block ahead of Otten, Olivia thirty feet behind her—both of them on the south side of the street.

_I'm 'eyes behind'... watching for anyone who starts following Judith... Chester is 'eyes front' watching for anyone who sees her coming and acts too interested... there's two officers in cars parked on Sixth Avenue—at W. Twentieth and at W. Twenty-first... only a block away from us at any time... they're also keeping tabs on our surroundings... if they spot someone resembling our suspect or anyone acting hinky, they'll let us know...._

Olivia stuck to the shadows, keeping her attention on any movement that might be a lurking male.

_I'm watching doorways, gaps between parked cars, and any obstructions along the way... the first construction area is in front of me... there's a sidewalk shed, a giant crane, and two Dumpsters in the right-hand lane...._

Lake's voice sounded in her earpiece

_"SVU One — got a woman with a Schnauzer approaching the decoy."_

"SVU Three," Olivia replied into her wrist mic. "I see her."

Otten did not acknowledge the warning, but she did nod a greeting to the dog-walker when they met. The nod was the only sign that she was paying any attention to her surroundings.

_With that attitude and those earbuds, Judith makes a nice, easy target... now, if only our rapist will take the bait...._

Two doors from the intersection of Sixth Avenue and W. Twentieth, Olivia passed the unmarked car in which officers Cusack and Sills from the One-Three were sitting. She acknowledged the two officers with quick greeting via her radio.

_And we pass the quarter of the way mark... so far, nothing... Judith's not slowing for the crosswalk... she knows we won't write her up for jay-walking...._

_"SVU One," _Lake said via her earpiece, _"there's three people smoking outside that church—two women, one man."_

Olivia gave the brownstone Gothic building on the corner a quick glance.

_That's no church... that's the Avalon... used to be the Limelight... back in the eighties, it was the hottest nightclub in Manhattan... I sneaked in once using a fake ID then went back a few more times when I was legal to drink... some of my friends thought partying in a church was creepy, but it had been decertified or whatever gets done to a church... I remember a huge wall of peacock feathers... probably not original equipment...._

Otten did not slow as she passed the club nor did she acknowledge the people smoking outside the chapel entrance.

_Employees, judging by their clothes and the late hour... club closed at 4 o'clock.... an hour or so to clean up—probably waiting on someone to finish up... the man ignored Judith...._

Olivia hurried across Sixth Avenue then ducked into the shadows cast by a long sidewalk shed that ran along half of the block.

_Three separate condo conversions, one right next to the other... pretty soon, all us renters will be squeezed off the island... at least it makes good cover... there's a short shed ahead of Judith across from the gun range—facade work on that building... Judith plans to stay on the north side of the street until she reaches Fifth Avenue then she'll turn the corner...._

Without pausing, Olivia brought her wrist to her face.

"SVU Three—Lake, which side of the street are you on?"

_"SVU One—I'm on the north by Club Vipre. There's some employees leaving through the street entrance. No one appears to be hanging around."_

Otten's voice cut in before Olivia could acknowledge Lake's reply.

"_Is that the club across from the gun range?"_

_"SVU One—yes, it's at the far end of the blue shed ahead of you. I'm continuing east to check out the intersection."_

_"Got it."_

With that, the radios went silent. Olivia stayed on the south side of the street, hurrying through the dark tunnel of scaffolding, paying no attention to the store fronts other than to make certain their doorways were empty. Across the street and twenty feet ahead of Olivia, Judith continued her walk.

_No slacking her pace... she must work out on a treadmill... I hope either she or Sue draws our guy out... assuming Lake's right and he is here tonight... a lot of time, effort, and money wasted if Chester's wrong...._

Across the street, lit by the fluorescent bulbs inside Club Vipre's entrance awning, Olivia spotted two men exiting the club. One leaned against the shed support with his hands in his pockets while the other turned back to lock the door.

_Both men tall and thin... both in dark slacks and dark shirts—can't tell exactly what color...._

Before Olivia could get on the radio, the two men parted company. The man with the keys crossed the street and headed east, away from Olivia, while the other man turned west and made his way toward Judith.

"SVU Three to SVU One" Olivia said into her mic. "Two men fitting the description have left Club Vipre. One is walking west toward the decoy; the other is heading east."

_"I see him," _Judith replied. _"I just passed a parking garage. He may be going to his car."_

Olivia quickened her pace under the sidewalk shed.

"SVU Three—I'm about forty feet behind the decoy south side of street. SVU One, do you see the man heading toward Fifth?"

_"SVU One,"_ Lake replied, _"He's still walking east. I'm at the vitamin shop at the corner, heading back your direction."_

"Roger that."

Taking care to make no noise, Olivia sprinted under the sidewalk shed until she had drawn even with Otten.

_There's Lake—he just ducked into a doorway... and there's that man... about five yards in front of Judith, coming toward her...._

Olivia grabbed a scaffold support and ducked between its crossbars. She made certain to stay in the shadow of the plywood covering as she watched the man approach the walking woman.

_He's clear of that overhang... young man... dark complexion... that is a black t-shirt... he doesn't appear to be paying Judith any attention... nothing more than a glance at her before looking away... typical New Yorker move—never make eye contact...._

She kept moving, staying parallel with Judith. When the man was ten feet from her, Olivia drew her service weapon.

_Just in case...._

With her weapon ready at her side, Olivia watch the two walkers pass each other on the sidewalk three doors east of the parking garage. Neither looked at the other, and the man showed no interest in Judith after he passed her.

_"Well,"_ Judith whispered, _"that was exciting."_

_"SVU One—let's keep trolling. I'm turning around now."_

"SVU Three," Olivia said, "I'll watch this guy—make sure he doesn't double back on our decoy. Where's the other man?"

_"SVU One—he turned south on Fifth Avenue."_

"Roger."

Olivia held her position as the man across the street slowed his pace.

_He's reached the parking garage entrance... putting a hand in his pants pocket... reaching for his car keys...._

For a moment, it looked as though the man had turned his pocket inside out, but the fabric Olivia mistook for pocket lining pulled free and hung limp in the man's grip. He then brought the object and his other hand to his head and, with a quick lowering of his head, pulled the object over his face. He then snapped his right hand downward, and a glint of light appeared by his fingers.

_Ski mask and knife... son of a bitch!_

As the man turned in Otten's direction, Olivia brought her left wrist to her face.

"SVU Three—subject has reversed course. He is now wearing a ski mask and carrying an open knife. He's coming after the decoy."

Ottenacknowledged Olivia's news with a calm "_Roger that."_

_"SVU One—there's an open loading dock three doors past Club Vipre. I'll station myself outside it."_

_"Roger that, too."_

_"SVU Three, close in behind the suspect. Allow him enough room to take the bait, but not enough to enjoy it."_

Olivia crouched low to cross the street, using the parked cars as cover. Through her earpiece, she heard Lake calling for the teams from the One-Three to approach his location then Judith's voice as she began to count off the addresses as she passed by them.

_"Fifteen, vacant... Thirteen, Club Vipre...."_

Olivia timed her pace to match the man hurrying ahead of her.

_He can't hear footsteps in time with his own... I'm about forty feet behind him... two and a half seconds away and closing...._

_"Eleven, a restaurant... Nine, a home décor store...."_

The man put on a burst of speed.

_"Seven,"_ Judith said, tension pitching her voice higher, _"a loading dock...."_

Olivia was twenty feet away when the man caught up with Otten. He reached forward, grabbing the older woman by her upper arms and spinning her off the sidewalk into the dock. Olivia heard her grunt then the _thud _of her body hitting something hard.

A male voice then shouted through Olivia's earpiece

_"You have money, bitch?"_

An earsplitting yell followed. Olivia drew her weapon and sprinted for the loading dock just as Lake crossed the sidewalk. Through both earpiece and air, she heard him shout, "NYPD! On the ground—on the-oof!"

To Olivia's horror, Chester's left foot slid out from under him. He tried to twist, to take the fall on hip and upper arm.

_"Get down," _Judith's voice shouted. _"Now!'"_

Lake hit the concrete just as Olivia cleared the edge of the door.

_Chester, on his right side, trying to bring his weapon to bear... Judith crouched against a Dumpster, left hand holding her upright, her gun aimed up at the suspect... a folding knife open at her feet... the smell of garbage and dog shit...._

Between the two detectives, the attacker shifted his weight and fixed his gaze on the street before him.

_He's going to bolt...._

Olivia planted herself in his way and raised her weapon in a two-hand grip.

"On the ground—I said, on the ground!"

His eyes, dark against the tan of his ski mask, locked onto the muzzle of her Glock and the starch went out of him. Slowly, he sank to his knees then, as a backup vehicle skidded to a stop behind Olivia, the man pressed himself prone against the concrete.

"I wasn't doin' nuthin'," he told her. "The bitch enticed me in here then he tried to jump me. I was defendin' myself—that's what this was."

Otten scrambled to her feet, her aim never wavering from her attacker.

"How about you shut up?" she asked, her scorn putting an edge on each word. "Chester, you okay?"

"Foot slipped," Lake said through gritted teeth. "Tore something in my knee—again."

With a wag of her head, Olivia sent one officer to Lake's side while the other pulled a set of handcuffs from under his shirt.

"We saw Lake go down," he told her as he cuffed the man, leaving him face-down on the concrete. "A bus and RMPs are the way."

Olivia recited the Miranda warning then she leaned over to yank the ski mask from the man's head.

"You always wear a ski mask when you're being mugged?" she asked.

The man stared at her feet, his mouth set into a pout.

"Bitch took my knife," he whined.

Otten slid her weapon into a holster at the small of her back.

"Easily, I might add," she noted. "Any one got an evidence bag?"

Olivia fished two from her pocket and handed one to Otten; the other she used for the ski mask. When it was secured, she went to Lake's side. The officer assisting Chester had helped him to a sitting position against the wall opposite the Dumpster.

She squatted down beside Chester as he attempted to straighten his left leg.

"Damn it," he said through gritted teeth. "That's not good. Olivia, would you call Brewster? Tell him to bring his team in."

"Sure thing, Chester," she replied. "Cusack over there says a bus is on the way."

Lake nodded. "Hate to say I need one, but this feels bad."

Across the dock, Otten handed her evidence bag to Officer Sills then, taking a wide arc around the prone suspect, she came over to stand by Chester and Olivia.

_She looks a little shaky… can't blame her… anticipating the attack, being attacked, fighting back—all that adrenaline doesn't vanish once it's over… it drains away, leaving you wobbly… at least, it does for me…._

The arrival of paramedics quickly followed by a car containing Elliot, Howie, and Sue drew Olivia out of her thoughts.

_Elliot's riding with Chester to Mercy Hospital… Judith wanted to go, but Chester wants her questioning our guy—Daniel Adams, according to his ID—as soon as he lands in Interrogation… Judith put Adams in an RMP heading back to the One-Six… she also called Cragen to update him… he's going to Mercy to check on Lake before coming in… now, all Judith and I have to do is tie up the loose ends then head back to the house…._

Before they left the scene, Olivia drew Judith aside.

"I noticed how you stayed far away from Adams," she said. "I figured you'd take the free shot. After all, he did slam you against that Dumpster."

Judith brushed a strand of loose hair from her face, sighing as she did so.

"I didn't dare," she replied. "The last thing I want is a brutality complaint—however much that hump deserves it."

She then grinned.

"Of course, I got a couple hits in while making him drop the knife. I guess that counts. Excuse me…."

She darted into the street to speak with one of the CSU photo techs, leaving Olivia to ponder the older woman's comment.

_Judith has to be in her late fifties... I can't imagine doing anything else with my life, but the thought of chasing down suspects and manhandling skels when I'm her age… I don't know about that…._

.


	15. Contents Under Pressure: part one

A/N: _Kufiya—_men's headwear made up of a square of fabric (_ghoutra) _folded into a triangle and worn with one point on each shoulder and one down the back. A circlet of woven fiber or camel hair (_`iqal_) holds it in place; Yasser Arafat wore one. The traffic enforcement agent and the kidnapped child are from the season seventeen Law & Order episode "Captive". _Gregory ''Pappy'' Boyington said "Flying_ is hours and hours of _boredom_ sprinkled with a few seconds of _sheer terror." RTCC means "Real Time Crime Center," a "massive data warehouse, which provides the 37,000-strong police department, the nation's largest, with almost immediate access to billions of records, including more than five million New York State criminal records, parole and probation files; 20 million New York City criminal complaints, emergency calls and summonses spanning five years; and 33 billion public records." _. Dec. 14, 2005

A few bad words in this chapter.

Front Desk of the Sixteenth Precinct  
11 August (Wednesday)

As he had promised Sergeant Valeri, Couch Sofarelli stopped by the precinct's front desk every other day since their conversation. Each time, the desk sergeant complained to the detective about the hordes of 'ragheads' overrunning his precinct. Each time, Sofarelli tried to assuage his fears.

_For one thing, the people coming in aren't all Arabs... there's Iraqis, Iranians, Lebanese, Afghanis, Egyptians, and yes—Arabs, too... I wouldn't call them 'hordes', either... given the demographics for our precinct, it's been about what I'd expect—two or three a day... all with legitimate reasons for coming by—asking about a pistol permit, parking rules, or when the precinct council meeting meets... wanting to know when they can retrieve items collected as evidence... needing to talk to a detective about an on-going investigation... nothing sinister or unusual...._

On his way in that morning, Couch again stopped by the front desk. The only non-Caucasian present, other than NYPD personnel, was an angry Haitian woman, her speech a gumbo of English and Creole pouring out at the desk sergeant.

_She's upset about her son getting picked up for burglary last night... I suppose, if I squint hard enough, her hair scarf might look like a _Kufiya_... sorry, Valeri—but after two weeks of trying to verify your claims, I think you're all wet...._

_  
_Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
11 August (Wednesday)

Chester Lake arrived on crutches that morning with his right leg immobilized by a knee brace and Judith running interference for him. He was greeted by catcalls and applause—the jokes because it was bad form to commiserate with his injuries, the applause for the success of Operation Greenwood. Daniel Adams had lawyered up, but he and Judith still got credit for the closes.

Chester responded to the jibes in order: "No, no one wished me 'Break a leg.' I wasn't taking a dive, and I wasn't showing the perp what 'On the ground' means. This isn't a sympathy ploy, and it's not my ACL this time—just a tendon sprain."

Munch held up a 8x10" color photo for Chester to see.

"CSU sent over a picture of the culprit."

The official NYPD crime scene photo, a close-up of smeared canine excrement on concrete, brought a snort of laughter from Lake.

"I'd like to find whoever left that crap so I can rub his nose in it."

"Swat him with a rolled-up newspaper," Elliot suggested. "Don't wanna get hit? Don't leave the shit."

After the groans subsided, Olivia asked Chester how long he would be on crutches.

"According to the doctor, two weeks until the swelling is gone. I'm glad Captain Cragen put me on desk duty; it beats sitting at home."

At his desk, Munch shook his head at that news.

"Lake isn't allowed to go out and play," he announced. "It's like being sent back to childhood. Maybe we should get him a stack of comic books and some bubble gum."

Chester's "just try it" grimace prompted a wry chuckle from Munch and ended question time. With their curiosities satisfied, the detectives turned to the open cases at hand.

Office of Lt. Van Buren  
Manhattan Homicide  
11 August  
_  
_Anita Van Buren arrived her customary thirty minutes early, poured herself some coffee, then sat down in her chair to listen to Ed Green's latest complaint about his partner.

_Cassady always rushes in as close to late as possible... another sign of her disorganization... when he gets fed up, Ed knows he can come in early and blow off some steam without her finding out...._

Green's complaints usually fell into three categories: Cassady never listens, Cassday can't control her mouth, and Cassady has no 'feel' for detective work.

_Today, it's #2 and 3.... a recent case that started with a child in the back seat of a car mouthing the word "Help" at a traffic enforcement agent... the parking cop couldn't keep the car from driving off so she wrote as much of the license as she could remember on her hand then called it in...._

Green leaned forward in his chair, his gaze fixed on Van Buren.

"I'm thanking the meter maid," he was saying, "for getting a partial license plate while Cassady's grumbling right at her, saying the woman should have done more."

"Done more?" Van Buren asked. "Like what?"

"Like throw herself in front of the car to stop it from driving off."

Ed spread his fingers wide as though begging the lieutenant to take Cassady off his hands.

"She can't see how a dead meter maid with a cryptic number written on her hand is nothing but a body. She tells us nothing about the missing kid."

Van Buren regarded her detective and his attitude.

_That's 'traffic enforcement agent'—not 'meter maid'... Fontana's bad habits have rubbed off on you...._

Van Buren put on her best "oh, I understand, but you still have to suck it up" smile

_Now, to tell him again that he was green once himself—no pun intended—and remind him that Cassady starts the Criminal Investigation Course next week—that should help smooth out her rough edges...._

Just then, her desk phone rang. Van Buren held up a finger and mouthed "Just a moment" before reaching for the receiver.

_Caller ID says "Rikers"... could be an update on the status of one of our collars... it could be something worse... for Ed's sake, I hope not...._

She glanced at Green, who had twisted in his chair to stare out at the squadroom, a gesture that created some privacy for her call.

"Lt. Van Buren."

The caller, Assistant Deputy Warden Stan Kibert, imparted his news without pathos or irony before promising to call when he had more information. Van Buren hung up the phone then cleared her throat to regain Green's attention.

"That was Rikers," she told him. "Seems there was a melee in one of the common areas at the Thomas Center last night."

Green stiffened, his gaze snapping from the squadroom to her face.

"Anacacis?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

Van Buren nodded.

"He and another Dominican were jumped by three inmates yesterday evening. When a guard tried to break it up, five more inmates joined the assault. By the time more guards arrived to intervene, both men had been beaten to dead."

"Damn."

Green slumped in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Any chance they gonna look in my direction?"

Van Buren held up her hand to hush him.

"Kibert said there were some recent verbal incidents between the Dominicans and others in that cell block. Maybe Anacacis rubbed someone the wrong way."

Green opened his eyes so he could roll them at the suggestion.

"And maybe Drucker arranged this to pay us back for helping his son."

Van Buren pinned him with a glare.

"You're starting to sound paranoid, Ed. It's not a good fit."

"Yeah, but that don't mean...," he recited.

"'... they ain't coming after you," she completed the quote. "I know, but right now, they're not looking outside Rikers for a motive. I'll keep in touch with Kibert, and I'll call the warden at Sullivan—ask him how Kevin Drucker is adjusting to prison life. If I hear anything, I'll let you know."

Green started to say something, but she cut him short with another sharp glare.

"You can tell Fontana about Anacacis, but mentioning Drucker is still a bad idea."

Green bolted upright and tensed as though he wanted to protest the order then he shook it off with a grin.

"Yeah, Joe would call someone who owes him a favor...."

Ed's sentence trailed off.

_Fontana and his favors... someone coming in from left field asking questions would make people sit up and take notice... not what Ed needs right now and I'm glad he realizes it...._

Van Buren gave Green a tight smile as she nodded.

"You let me run this through channels. The less attention it attracts, the better."

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
11 August

_Searching databases has to be the most boring part of this job... except for the endless paperwork... and the stakeouts... and waiting to be called as a witness... someone once said flying was hours and hours of boredom sprinkled with moments of sheet terror... I'll bet flying is less boring than police work...._

Across from Olivia, her partner blew a raspberry of frustration at his own computer monitor.

_Good to know I'm not suffering alone... but I'd rather be doing what John's doing—sitting at his desk with his feet up, explaining to Donna the fine points of emotional abuse and battered spouse syndrome... I could take a break and call Dave, but it's awkward with Elliot right across from me... Judith talks to Fontana in Italian —she's doing so right now... she said she needs the practice, but it's really because she caught us listening to her side of the calls... I should ask if Dave knows French... Elliot doesn't so maybe we could get some privacy that way...._

From behind her, at Munch's old desk, Couch, alone at his desk due to Fin's day-off, called out a warning.

"Bureau Chief Beale in the hall."

Olivia glanced around the room.

_John hasn't budged... Judith's ending her personal call... everyone else looks good...._

Thanks to Couch's warning, everyone except Munch appeared busy when the bureau chief entered the squadroom.

_His suit looks like the one Cragen wore yesterday... light gray with a thin pale stripe... different tie—Cragen always wears stripes, Beale solid colors... today, it's maroon...._

To Olivia's surprise, the rotund man did not make a beeline to the captain's office. Instead, he acknowledged their greetings with a nod then turned left to stop by Otten and Lake.

"Good morning, Detectives," he said, his gaze fixed on Chester's knee brace. "Lake, how's your leg?"

"It's not bad, sir," he replied. "It could have been worse."

Beale beamed at him, his cheeks puffing up until they obscured his eyes.

"That's good to hear, Detective. Now, I want to congratulate both of you on your arrest of Daniel Adams. My people will have no trouble putting him away thanks to the solid work you did for his arrest."

Without giving Otten and Lake a chance to reply, he turned and smiled at Stabler and Benson.

"My praise for that good work goes for you, too," he told them. "We all know an operation is only as good as its weakest participant, and your unit keeps proving it has no weak participants."

Olivia smiled, both at the compliment and at her partner's whispered comment.

_Yeah, Elliot... I wish he'd said "weakest link" and then "good-bye," too... what's with the praise? Is he buttering us up for something? Maybe he found out we were checking him out and he wants to soft-soap us into telling him why...._

She kept a close watch on the bureau chief as he swept the room with his gaze before addressing all of them.

"I know most of you heard the former Chief of Department characterize this unit as a bunch of 'cowboys, sob sisters, and decrepit old farts—basket cases no other unit wants.'"

Beale glanced at Munch, whose hands were folded above his tie clasp and whose feet still were resting on the open lower drawer of his desk. John peered up at him then gave the chief a toothy grin.

_It's like John's deliberately trying to look the part...._

After an almost imperceptible shake of his head, Beale continued his speech.

"Sullivan's remark shows exactly how far up his nether orifice his head was. I'll grant your methods occasionally may be unorthodox, but the proof of their efficacy is in your devotion to duty, in your close rates, and in the convictions my people get from your arrests. Your dedication and your professionalism are a joy to behold so, again, thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me...."

Without giving anyone a chance to respond, Beale turned for Cragen's office. His path took him by Munch's desk, where he paused for a short comment before entering the captain's office. John's toothy grin widened, but Loudoun's eyes went wide.

As soon as the office door swung shut, she blurted her shock at John.

"Fruitcake? Did he just call you a fruitcake?"

John, still grinning, nodded.

"An epithet justly deserved thanks to a previous act of noble self-sacrifice.

He then pointed his index finger at her.

"By the way, if I ever again offer myself as a sacrifice, I want you to stop me. Lay hands on me, tackle me—handcuff me if you must. It's your duty as my partner to keep me safe."

"Sounds like someone is voicing his fantasies out loud again," Elliot said, his stage whisper pitched for the room at-large.

"I'm merely following your partner's request," John shot back. "She said bruises did not become me."

Donna looked to Olivia for an explanation.

"I'll tell you over lunch," she replied. "In the meantime, any one know what that was about?"

The others shrugged or shook their heads. Couch offered his guess first.

"Maybe it's time for the annual compliment. Doesn't our contract require one?"

"Yes, and only one," Munch shot back. "The shorter, the better."

"He must have reread _The One-Minute Manager_," Judith suggested. "That's about how long his congratulations took."

"And that's exactly how long his gratitude will last," Elliot added. "Next case we fail to make an arrest, he will be back here telling us what a bunch of crap-filled losers we are."

Elliot's statement prompted a chorus of "Isn't that the truth" and "Amen to that."

Olivia set her concern aside.

_I guess I'm worrying over nothing... sometimes, a compliment is just a compliment...._

Office of Captain D. Cragen  
Manhattan SVU  
11 August

_Departmental notices... CEA newsletter... a reminder about the upcoming Emerald Society meeting... a response from the Jaguar forum to my question about carburetors... only that last one sounds appealing, but it's not work-related...._

Cragen peered through the slats of the open Venetian blinds to see if anything interesting was happening in the squadroom.

_Beale... talking to my people.... shit...._

His first thought was to beat a fast retreat through his office's hall door.

_God, let him be here for a pending case... some screw-up by my detectives... even to tell me I'm not being promoted... I don't want to be right... I'd rather be paranoid...._

Outside his office, Beale turned to address Stabler and Benson. At the sight of his face, Cragen's palms went clammy and his stomach knotted.

_It's okay… I know what's coming... an offer of a round of golf, a dinner out—something to set me up for an attack… but I'm ready… I'm in control… I'm not going to be blind-sided like Liz Olivet was...._

Cragen watched Beale finish his address to the detectives then, after a pause by Munch's desk, he came straight to Cragen's door and let himself in.

"Hi, Don," he said as the door swung shut behind him. "Just stopped by to compliment your people on the Adams arrest."

Cragen pointed to the chair placed by his desk.

_He is my friend... he is my friend... my friend...._

The mantra did not ease the ache in his gut, but it did trigger the emotional barriers he needed to welcome the bureau chief with a smile.

"Good to see you, Andrew. Have a seat."

"Gladly."

Andrew lowered himself into the chair and let out a long sigh.

"I hate August. All my people want time off, but the criminals never go on vacation. I can't tell you how far behind we are right now."

"Andrew, you're the bureau chief. It's your job to know."

Don said it calmly without hint of censure or rebuke, but the jibe eased some of his mental turmoil.

_Call it a release value... if I don't poke at him once in a while, I'll explode...._

Beale placed a hand to his heart as though the words had wounded him.

"Don, I thought you were my friend."

_No, I'm deep undercover and faking it... come Sunday, I'll know if we're friends or not...._

Don picked up a departmental spreadsheet from his desk and held it up for Beale to see.

"We both live and die by the statistics. I'm only pointing out the obvious."

Beale's gaze met Don's, sending a shudder through him as the rotund man smiled ruefully.

"Isn't that the truth," he replied.

Then, to Cragen's dismay, Beale pointed a pudgy finger in his direction.

"Now, the real reason I stopped by," he said.

Don braced his feet as though ready to bolt.

_He is my friend... he is my friend...._

"I got box seats for Sunday's game courtesy of our estimated District Attorney. Feel like watching the Yankees beat the Orioles? "

_Box seats surrounded by 50,000 people... that sounds safe...._

Don greeted the offer with another faked smile.

"This Branch's way of patting you on the head for not knowing what's going on?"

Beale cocked an eyebrow.

"Oh, you're in rare form today. Yes, thanks to you and your people, I'm looking damn good—so good, there's enough of it to share."

"Sure you wouldn't share with Munch?"

Beale's face immediately flushed as he choked and sputtered in shock at the question.

_That was worth it...._

The bureau chief bent forward, trying to get his breath back.

"Damn it, Don. Why would I waste a ticket on that fruitcake? He's probably an Oriole fan."

This time, Don's smile was not fake.

"John did twenty years with Baltimore's Finest. Of course he roots for the Orioles."

Beale's flush went pale at the heresy.

"All the more reason to not take him," he replied. "Now, if you'd rather sit home and worry about Monday's promotion list...."

_That's not what I'm worried about...._

"Not really," he told Beale. "When's the game?"

"One p.m. We'll get there early and have lunch."

"Sounds good to me," Don replied.

"Speaking of meals, did a outdoor barbecue come with that pool of yours?"

_What? Why?_

Don bit back the questions then said, "No, but the house did. It's one of those big brick ones, probably as old as I am."

Beale sat upright in his chair.

"Usable? In good shape?"

Don fought to keep his expression under control.

_Is he suggesting a cook-out at my place? An intimate dinner for two with me as dessert? Oh, God—no…._

The knot in his stomach tightened into a cramp. Don shrugged to keep from curling forward around the pain.

"I think so," he said, striving to keep his voice steady. "My brother-in-law grilled burgers on it for a family picnic on Memorial Day. Nothing melted or fell apart."

Beale beamed at him.

"In that case, dinner is on me. I've a source for porterhouse steaks that would make the Greek gods turn down ambrosia, and a friend of mine just sent me a bundle of seasoned pecan wood from southeast Georgia. After the game, we'll go to your place and—"

"You cook?" Don blurted out.

_Say 'no'… tell me this is a joke…._

Beale frowned back at him.

"Of course I cook. How else would I recognize great food if I didn't understand it? Now, make room in your fridge so I can drop everything off before the game. I'll bring the steaks, side dishes, condiments, utensils…."

While Beale discussed his plans, Don mentally ran through the ramifications of the bureau chief at his house on Sunday evening.

_This is what I planned for… but I wanted to be wrong… I can still be wrong... he cooks, we eat, he goes home—and I retire on a mental health disability … my own backyard and kitchen… I can control what I eat and drink… watch Beale like a hawk while he's cooking and serving… and, if anything goes wrong, I've got the cameras… God, I hope I don't need the cameras…._

"Is there a problem, Don? Do you have other plans?"

Beale's question yanked Don from his thoughts.

_Quick—think of something… other plans… Tullia's good at planning… Tullia… that works…._

"No, no other plans," he replied. "I was thinking Tullia had mentioned something, but the third Sunday of every month is dinner at her mother's house."

A grin spread across Beale's face, puffing his cheeks until they almost hid his eyes.

"Where, next month, you'll be sitting next to her and giving her big brother Tony a very bad case of heartburn. I truly wish I could be a fly on that dining room wall."

The bureau chief then levered himself to his feet.

"So, the game and dinner—is it a go?"

Don curved the corners of his mouth up until they hurt.

"Sounds good to me, Andrew. I can't wait."

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
11 August

As soon as Beale entered the captain's office, everyone except Munch and Loudoun turned back to their work. Rather than resume his domestic violence lecture, Munch walked his chair around to his partner's side.

_She's adopted Olivia's manner of dress—cotton tops and slacks... smart of her—dressing like a investment banker may work for Special Frauds, but bodily fluids and street filth drive up the dry cleaning bills... all things considered, Donna is fitting in well... except for her continual questioning of my statements and requests...._

"I need help running down a name," he told her.

True to form, Donna's response was a question.

"Is this about Choi?"

_Yes, it is... Ed Perkins was no help—his wife told me he was in the advance stages of Alzheimer's and that she had nothing for me... but Michael Tsonganis, who worked at an insurance agency on Avenue A, was able to dredge up a memory for me... he had been on vacation so Det. Garchik missed interviewing him...._

"I got a name, a first name," he said, showing her a slip of note paper, "and a possible address—or at least a neighborhood. Now, I need some help finding the guy."

John's _sotto voce_ plea garnered only a glare from Donna.

"You said all I had to do was cover for you once," Donna told him, her voice just as hushed but more exasperated. "You said nothing about on-going participation."

She pointed at the case folder open by her keyboard.

"What about this spousal rape from yesterday? That and the rest of our open cases?"

John made shooing motions with his hand.

"We'll get to them. All I need is some database searches. If we both request them using our open case numbers, it won't be so obvious."

Donna shook her head.

"We don't have any cases in Alphabet City."

"Who's to say one of our suspects didn't live there eleven years ago? C'mon, Loudoun—what harm can it do?"

Her eyes narrowed as she touted up the possibilities.

_Yes, I know—verbal reprimands for misuse of departmental resources... trust me, they're not that bad...._

"Didn't you warn me about the dangers of obsessing over my cases?"

John nodded as he remembered that conversation.

"But this is a new lead. It's not like I'm plowing the same ground over and over again."

The stubborn clench of Donna's jaw warned him she wasn't buying his argument.

"Why don't you ask Cragen?" she asked. "He's being reasonable right now."

John glanced over at the captain's office. Between the slats of the Venetian blinds, he saw Beale pushing himself to his feet while Cragen smiled at him.

_No... I'm not ready yet...._

"I don't want to bother him," John replied. "Not with everything else going on."

"Okay."

Donna drew out the two syllables, a sign that it really was not all right, before she turned her attention to the spousal rape interview notes, ignoring John as he watched Beale leave Cragen's office. When the bureau chief had cleared the squadroom door, she reached out and snatched the slip of paper from John's hand then bolted from her chair.

_What the hell?_

Before he could get to his feet, she had passed Elliot's desk and was approaching Cragen's office. John winced, but held his tongue.

_Shit… now I have to follow her in and pretend this was my idea…._

As nonchalantly as possible, he followed his partner's path until he was standing next to her before Cragen's desk.

_He doesn't look too good… maybe all that brown-nosing isn't agreeing with him…._

John switched his attention to Loudoun as she explained the Choi case to the captain.

_Concise… to the point… and she's giving me credit…._

When she finished, Cragen pursed his lips as he considered the matter then he directed a question at Munch.

"John, what did you get from the recanvass?"

He squared his feet and answered formally,

"Sir, I got a first name—Fred—and a vague idea that he lived somewhere east of Tompkins Square Park."

Cragen frowned.

_Yes, I know it's not much… what do you want after eleven years?_

"Were any Freds listed as persons of interest?"

John shook his head.

"You squared this with the primary?"

John nodded. Cragen picked up his pen.

"Well, John," he said, "I'm willing to trust your instincts. What's the case number?"

_He has to transfer it to SVU control so we can charge time and resources against it…._

John recited the number from memory.

"Don't let this get in the way of your current work," Cragen warned as he wrote the number on a piece of scrap paper."

Both detectives assured him it would not.

"Good," the captain replied, "and good luck with it. I'm sure this little girl's family will appreciate you two giving this another try."

John let Donna make the appropriate gratitude noises then he followed her from the office.

_'Little girl's family' my ass… Cragen approved this so he can add another cold case to his string of accomplishments.…_

He waited until they were back at their desks before commenting on his partner's actions.

"Don't ever to that to me again."

His warning got him a low chuckle and a huge grin, but no apology or justification for her actions.

_Fine… be that way… just remember--Cragen included you in his instructions… now, you're working this case with me…._

Across the aisle, Couch ran his finger under a line of pertinent data from a reported over from the lab.

_'Presence of both saliva and ejaculate on fibers of rug'… exactly what Casey didn't want... s__he can't argue Salton was too drunk to consent if she was sober enough to spit...._

Couch grimaced as though it hurt him to admit it.

_With our victim unable to remember anything, there's too much chance of reasonable doubt... Jacobsmeier gets a pass on this one... at least I don't have to tell Fin until tomorrow... wonder if Judith would like to trade her day off tomorrow with me... let me postpone the bad news until Friday...._

Out in the hall, Olivia was having report fun of her own.

_It like someone waxed the folders… damn!_

The thick stack of folders, which had already slipped from her grasp once, shot from under her arm to spread itself across the linoleum. Olivia squatted on her heels and began to pick them up again.

_Stupid time card reports… I should have left them for Chloe… just because I'm heading that way doesn't mean I have to deliver them…._

She continued to grouse to herself as she reinserted each report into its proper folder.

_You'd think someone would see me on the floor and come by to help… there's never a cop around when I need one…._

Just then, footsteps approached her position. Olivia looked up to see a woman in a long Confederate gray tunic. Slate gray cotton slacks covered her legs, and brown leather slip-ons her feet. A patterned scarf in blues and browns draped loosely hid her hair and neck.

_She's about my age, judging from the skin at the corners of her eyes… she looks a bit pale—too much time indoors? She's also sweating under all those layers… good thing the A/C is working today…._

"Excuse, please," the woman asked, her words heavily accented. "Are you policewoman?"

Olivia left the folders on the floor as she rose to her feet.

"I'm a detective. What can I help you with?"

The woman's gaze darted over Olivia's clothing and face then her brows knit together as though the sight of Western clothing angered her.

_You try hauling in suspects in an outfit like yours…._

"I am to bring my mother to look at photographs. There are many peoples, many men. Is it busy here always?"

Olivia glanced at the hallway around them.

_I see three detectives by the elevators… two uniforms with a perp in cuffs the other side of the air shaft... that's hardly a crowd…._

Olivia shook her head.

"No, this is probably the best time for your mother—this or mid-afternoon. Try to avoid shift change; it's much busier then."

"Shift change?"

Olivia winced then smiled to apologize for the jargon.

"Don't bring your mother between seven-thirty and eight-thirty in the morning or three-thirty to four-thirty in the afternoon. We change personnel at those times, and it could take a while for a detective to help you."

The women's lips moved as she considered Olivia's words.

"Now is good, but eight of clock and four of clock is bad for my mother—yes?"

Olivia vigorously nodded her agreement.

"Thank you for help."

With that, the woman turned around and made a beeline for the elevator. Olivia chuckled to herself.

_I'm glad I'm not wearing all that fabric… talk about a portable sauna…._

She gathered the folders for another try at getting them to the precinct commander's office.

_Next time, Chloe—this job is all yours….  
_


	16. Contents Under Pressure: part two

A/N: To my knowledge, there are no skinhead groups called "True Aryan Blood." I could find no info on the layout, furnishings, or the record-keeping methods of the DA's Harlem office so I faked it.

"Mythic Creatures", 'a special exhibit explaining the origins and reality behind dragons, unicorns, and mermaids', was at the American National History Museum from May 26, 2007 through January 6, 2008.

HIU = Homicide Investigation, the bureau of the New York County District Attorney's office that handles non-Asian gang-related murders.

The house used as Cragen's residence in the fourth season of Law & Order (the one I'm using for my stories) isn't on 81st Street (I'll wager it's not even in Brooklyn), but I had to put it somewhere.

Kwazi is what Fin named his son; sometime after the divorce, Fin's son took his mother's maiden name and changed his first name to Ken.

97.1FM is WQHT, "Hot 97", Contemporary Hits-Urban music in NYC. IWB="inside waistband", a holster style for concealed-carry. (If I stopped doing research and made every thing up, I could post chapters much faster.)

Some bad language in this chapter.

New York County District Attorney—Northern Manhattan Office  
Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. State Office Building  
163 W. 125th Street  
11 August (Wednesday)

The Northern Manhattan Office was partitioned into low beige cubicles instead of the wood and glass offices to which Alex was accustomed. The place was open, uncluttered, and mind-numbingly bland.

_Still, it must be nice to see where everyone is without peeking around corners and opening doors... if it wasn't like trudging across the Sahara to get here... whoever decided the plaza outside didn't need any trees or awnings never had to cross it on a hot August afternoon...._

Thanks to Jack McCoy calling ahead, the office manager had the phone records for the week in question ready for Alex. She led the ADA to a vacant cubicle before handing over the log books.

"Shelley's on vacation so you can use her desk," she told Borgia, "and there's a copier around the corner. Let me know if you need anything else."

Alex thanked her. As soon as the woman left the cubicle, Alex picked up the desk phone and dialed Lt. Van Buren's phone number.

_Pick up... c'mon, pick up... I can kill two birds with one call if you'll pick up...._

_"Van Buren."_

"Lieutenant? It's Alex Borgia. I'm calling about the Anacacis matter but, first, I need a favor."

_"What do you need, Counselor?"_

The slight pause before the lieutenant replied and the use of the honorific warned Alex that things weren't squared between her and Van Buren.

"I need to know what your CallerID screen has for this call."

_"It says 'DIST ATTY NY'."_

Van Buren spelled out the ID.

"Okay, thanks," Borgia told her, speaking quickly to forestall any questions. "That's what I needed. Now, I spoke to Rikers about Anacacis. They say the beatdown was the work of members of the True Aryan Blood.

_"Sounds white supremacist."_

"TAB is a skinhead group loosely affiliated with the Brotherhood. There's been friction between them and the Dominicans at Rikers, but nothing overt before this. As far as anyone can determine, it was a matter of 'We're bored so let's jump someone.' Anacacis and the other victim were the first non-whites they ran into."

_"So," _Van Buren said,_ "this was a matter of 'wrong place, wrong time' for Double-Dom?"_

"Seems like. I called the Meades this morning and told them about Anacacis' death then I talked to Brandon Stone's doctor. Better they hear it from us than some reporter or news show."

Alex heard Van Buren sigh.

_"Good. Thank you for that. Now, did you find out who in your office ordered Fontana's file from Dr. Skoda?"_

This time, the long sigh was Borgia's.

_You're kinda like a bulldog, Lieutenant—you never give up...._

"No, not yet," she admitted. "I'm in Harlem right now about to go through more phone records."

_"What about the Bronx DA?"_

"Uh...."

Alex let the syllable hang.

_Jack talked to Dave Turner, Martinez' EADA last night—bought him dinner in exchange for some dirt... Turner said his boss did request a copy of the shooting review, and he did ask Deputy Commissioner Balzano to 'take Fontana out'... those were his very words... it's almost prophetic considering what happened to Fontana afterward, but the EADA swears Martinez only wanted Fontana gone, not hurt... seems both Martinez and the Bronx NYPD brass are still upset about Fontana's bad habits... maybe, if I dodge the question a little., I won't have to tell Anita that..._

"The Bronx DA did ask for a copy of the shooting review, but that doesn't explain the phone call from our office. I'll let you know what I find out here—okay?"

_"See that you do."_

Van Buren ended the call by hanging up. Alex wrinkled her nose at the phone receiver in her hand.

_Thanks, Lieutenant... I need more rudeness in my life... between the upcoming Frank, Benelli, and McGowan trials, the Anacacis murder, a bunch of deposition transcripts I have to read, a pile of briefs the length of my arm, and Jack breathing down my neck over these stupid phone logs—any more pressure and I'll turn into a diamond...._

She replaced the receiver then took the first bound phone log from the stack.

_Might as well get started...._

Twenty minutes later, Alex found what she needed in a log of calls made by the Social Services Department.

_July fourteen, nine-fifteen a.m.... call between Lynne Scott and E. Skoda... nothing entered for "Pertaining to"... I think this is it...._

Alex made three copies of the log book page then returned to the cubicle.

_Now, if I can find an office phone book...._

She found one on the vacationing Shelley's desk, partially obscured by a memo about keeping important papers under lock and key. According to it, Lynne Scott was in the Counseling Department. Alex called her phone number, but it went directly to a computer-generated recording.

_"Lynne Scott is out of the office until Monday, August sixteenth. If you need assistance, please call—"_

Alex hung up then put the three copies in her briefcase. After returning the logs to the office manager, she asked if Lynne had gone somewhere exotic for her vacation.

_If I sound like her friend, I'll get more info and no one will tie her to my search...._

The office manager laughed at the question.

Oh, Lynne didn't go anywhere," she told Alex. "Her daughter and son-in-law are visiting from Arizona with the grandkids. She's spending the week playing tourist with them."

Alex smiled at the news. After thanking the woman again, she left as quickly as possible. As soon as she had crossed the plaza, she called McCoy. He greeted the news of her discovery with a question.

"_Have you talked to Scott yet?"_

Alex jerked to a halt outside an optical shop.

"Jack—give me a break. She's on vacation."

_"Then find out where she is and call her there. Arthur is all over me on this."_

"Fine. Transfer me to someone who can look up her address for me."

_"Address? I thought she was on vacation."_

"She's playing tourist in the city with her grandkids. Can I hope she lives in Harlem?"

A dry chuckle answered her question.

_"People who live on hope, Alex, usually starve. Let me know what you find out."_

A series of _clicks_ followed his words as he transferred her call. Alex snarled at her phone.

_So much for going home at a reasonable hour... eating dinner at my own table... thanks, Jack—any second now, I'm going to break out in facets and start sparkling...._

Residence of Donald Cragen  
Bensonhurst, NY  
11 August

Tutuola had been to his captain's house twice since joining the SV unit. The first time was out of curiosity; Fin wondered where his new CO lived so he drove past the place on his way home one evening.

_Looked like a nice place in a nice neighborhood... maybe, if I'd bought a house like this, me and Teresa might have stayed together... raised Kwazi up right... yeah—with me working undercover all the time? I'd of had the divorce, Teresa hating on me, Kwazi changing his name—walking away from his heritage—all that and a mortgage to pay off, too...._

The second visit came two years later when Cragen's Buick refused to start at the end of a shift. The captain had left it with the mechanics in the precinct's motor pool then bummed a ride home from Fin.

_When we got here, Cap'n invited me in, but I had a date lined up... I expected him to look relived... instead, he looked disappointed.... I didn't think about cars and him again until this week... Stabler said something about Cragen tooling around in his Jag, bald head blowing in the breeze..._

Those around Elliot had laughed. To Tutuola, the remark was nothing close to funny.

_Greg Lau had an Jaguar XKE—an E-type... bought it with his share of the blackmail Wilkerson collected... NYPD seized all of Greg's shit then auctioned it off... what with Stabler's crack, I asked a guy I know at the auto impound if he could check the sales records for me... he hasn't gotten back yet...._

The possibility of Cragen buying Lau's Jag roiled through Fin's brain throughout his day-off. Sometimes, it felt like the captain had taken a scalp, the car a grisly souvenir of that bloody day. Other times, it felt righteous, the car a trophy to honor his defeat of Lau and Wilkerson.

_But, mostly, it feels wrong... ill-gotten goods going to a man no better than a boil on my butt...._

By midafternoon, his curiosity, coupled with indignation and a lack of interest in bathroom cleaning, moved Fin to act.

_Might as well put this to rest..._

Fin headed east, his driving instinctive, his thoughts elsewhere.

_Either Lau's Jag is at Cragen's place or it ain't... or maybe he bought a new one to go with his new threads... reinventing himself so he looks good to the promotion board... damn fool can't see how changing his clothes don't matter....he's the same man they kept passing over before..._

He turned south on Utica Avenue.

_He can't even win over his own people... Dan says most of his shift want him gone... Howie, Greg, and Amanda the only hold-outs... with us, Cragen only has Olivia, Elliot, and Judith... Olivia because she's a sucker for a sad story... Elliot because he's too much a jarhead to think about disloyalty... Judith thinks she owes Cragen for protecting Fontana—she forgets the precinct commander would have sent those uniforms to the hospital, but Cragen outmaneuvered him to make himself look good... another shitty promotion stunt...._

He took the turn onto King's Highway heading for Bensonhurst.

_Lake and Loudoun don't know what Cragen was like before—they think he's acting normal... Sofarelli knows, but he's got skin in the game... if Cragen rises, he takes Sofarelli with him... yeah, Cragen said he'll have to wait his turn on the sergeant's list, but that's bullshit... saying anything else is like admitting he fixed Sofarelli's promotion... word gets to IAB and all that money he spent on clothing be wasted... they don't let you wear bespoke jumpsuits in prison...._

Sixty-fifth Street, Bay Parkway, Eightieth Street—Fin made the turns mechanically as he neared his destination.

_Hate to say it, but Munch is the only one seeing things clearly... he's giving Cragen the respect due for being a captain and nothing more... he knows—we all know how Cragen shit on his people..._

Fin cut over from Eightieth to Eighty-first and pulled past Cragen's red brick split-level to park two doors down on the opposite side of the street. A quick check of his surroundings showed no neighbors out in their yards and no activity on the sidewalks nor outside the office across the street from Cragen's house.

_A fast look in the garage... confirm what I know I'll find...._

With that, he left his car and strode up the sidewalk then straight to Cragen's garage door.

_If I look sneaky, someone will notice... look like you belong and no one ever sees you...._

The front of the house was in full sun, giving Fin enough light to see the interior of the garage through the row of windows set in the door. He shaded his eyes against his reflection and peered inside.

_Shit... there it is...._

The Jaguar was centered in the garage, maroon bonnet facing Fin, biscuit leather interior visible through the windscreen.

_Just like the description in Lau's financial records... a restored 1962 Jaguar XKE... all those beers I stood Greg—him crying poverty while he had this beauty at home waiting for him...._

An assortment of containers and tools on the workbench next to the car proved Cragen was paying proper attention to Greg Lau's beauty.

_Paste wax, hand buffer, chamois cloths, hand vac, glass cleaner, leather cleaner, leather conditioner, chrome cleaner—all good stuff... a car like this deserves the best... looks like Cragen knows it, too... he must be spending all his free time out here detailing... I never saw anyone wax a scalp... trophies go on shelves to get dusty, but this ride's getting some loving care... I'll bet Cragen gets off on driving it—him and that councilman's aide Munch told us about—Balzano's sister... the two of them taking long drives in the country where no one can see them...._

Fin pulled back from the glass, his view of the car replaced by his silhouette and the reflection of the street behind him. The combination of Cragen, Balzano's sister, and Lau's Jaguar—the liar, the woman who should be his enemy, and the fruits of Lau's blackmail and murder—refused to make sense. His shoulders grew warm from the sun on his back as he stood in the driveway, caught by the oddness.

_Something ain't right about this... and me standing where people can wonder what I'm doing—maybe call me into the Six-Two as a suspicious character—is a bad idea...._

Fin went back to where he had parked, but he did not start the engine. Instead, he sat behind the wheel as he thought.

_Sullivan... Wilkerson... they put enough hurting on Cragen to make him snap... but schizophrenia isn't a PTSD symptom... Cragen should hate everyone... not be happy at home with a woman and a damn fine ride and then be an asshole in the squadroom... yeah, risk-taking is a symptom, but messing with Balzano's sister? That's not risk-taking—it's suicide… the First Dep screwed Fontana for a hell of a lot less... doesn't add up—the captain's too much the careful type...._

That thought grew in Fin's head as the afternoon shadows lengthened across the hood of his car.

_Cragen always measured the consequences of his decisions... drove us crazy, but we appreciated the way he weighed the risks before putting us in harm's way... with IAB, with the brass, on the streets... sort of man who prays over his people—never told us he was doing it, but you could tell from the way he looked at you while you got your gear together... he was doing everything he could to keep his people from ending up in body bags... yeah, Cap'n watched over us...._

The bitterness of that memory turned yet more sour as Fin completed the thought.

_And didn't I promise to watch his back in return? I could of said something... gone into his office and talked to him... gone to Chief Conrad and told him Cragen needed some help... but I didn't... I can blame getting mad at Munch—damn fool and his photo... I can blame losing Fred and Tammy—damn stupid 'wrong time, wrong place'... I can blame the whole unit for going batshit crazy at the same time... but I'm the only one who saw the threat to the captain ... I'm the one who let him down... too damn busy hating everyone to do what was right...._

Fin scowled at the steering wheel before him as he considered that failure.

_It's because I let Munch get in my head... mess with my thinking... Couch, Liv, Elliot—I let myself get mad at the wrong people... the stress getting to me, too... guess I'm no better than Cragen... maybe I ought to tell him that...._

He checked the dashboard clock then he called the SV unit's main number.

"It's Fin—is the captain there? Left already? You know if he's heading home? 'kay—thanks."

Fin then started his engine and put the car into reverse, backing two lengths down the one-way street before pulling into the right side of Cragen's driveway.

_I should write myself a ticket for that move...._

Once parked again, Fin made himself comfortable then turned on the car radio to 97.1FM.

_Traffic this time of day, take him about thirty minutes to get here... I'll wait...._

Natural History Museum  
Central Park West  
11 August

According to the info Alex received from the clerk to whom Jack transferred her call, Lynne Scott lived in New Hamburg, a small town near Poughkeepsie some seventy minutes from Harlem by commuter train.

_When I called to see if Scott would be home, she told me she was at the Natural History Museum with her family so I arranged to meet her there... talk about catching a break...._

Mrs. Scott was easy to spot among the summer visitors to the museum.

_There—outside the "Mythic Creatures" exhibit... shorter than me... gray hair... friendly face with lots of laugh wrinkles... denim culottes and a cotton blouse with sturdy walking shoes.... I'll bet her shoulder bag is full of stuff for her grandkids—yep, there's a plush blue whale peaking out at me...._

Unfortunately, the grandmotherly Mrs. Scott did not remember making a call to Emil Skoda.

"Oh, if the phone logs say I did," she assured Alex, "then I'm sure I must have. The way my mind is lately, I'm forgetting some thing for every gray hair I find. Maybe I should try coloring it."

Alex faked a chuckle at the joke.

"Did I write down what the call was about?"

Alex shook her head at Scott's question.

"Dr. Skoda said you asked him for a copy of his psychiatric evaluation of a detective," she said, hoping to jog the woman's memory. "You gave him a fax number to send it to."

Mrs. Scott's air of confusion deepened.

"Is there a record of me getting a fax in the logs?"

Alex shook her head again. Scott smiled back at her.

_She looks like she wants to offer me a cookie to make up for disappointing me...._

"Do you remember why you made the call?" Alex prompted her. "Did your boss ask you to? Was it for a case you were working on?"

"Oh, no—I don't work cases. I'm a secretary, not a social worker. Dr. Carey, she's my boss, but I don't remember her asking me to do anything about a detective. Have you talked to her?"

Alex blinked, leaving the motion her only response.

_I really don't want to bring this to your boss... asking about your forgetfulness might be the straw that makes her fire you...._

"I'd like to help," the older woman continued, "but that was almost a month ago and I really don't remember."

Mrs. Scott glanced at her watch then at the entrance to the exhibit.

"I said I'd meet my family for the next showing in the Dragon Theater. My grandsons think dragons are so cool. I guess it's all the fire-breathing—that and the flying. Do you need anything else?"

Alex quickly fished a card from her briefcase.

"f you remember anything about making that call," she said as she handed the card to Scott, "could you let me know? It's kinda important."

Scott put the card in her tote bag.

"I promise, and I'm truly sorry I wasn't any help. You take care, Ms Borgia."

As Scott left to rejoin her family, Alex allowed herself a slouch against a wall.

_That was a waste... now, I have to call Jack and tell him the info I need has been forgotten by a sweet little grandmother... maybe I'll get his voice mail...._

She got out her cellphone and dialed his boss' number, crossing her fingers in a effort to ensure his absence.

_"You have reached...."_

Alex's sigh of relief lasted almost as long as the recorded message.

"Jack," she said to the recorder, "it's Alex. Lynne Scott doesn't remember making any calls to Skoda, and I think she's telling the truth. I left my card with her; maybe she'll remember something later. I'm heading home to read through the depositions for the Price trial. Let me know if you want me to go talk to Scott's boss tomorrow."

She ended the call and pocketed her phone.

_There... and he better not call and have me track down Dr. Carey tonight or I'll never get these documents read...._

Residence of Donald Cragen  
Bensonhurst, NY  
11 August

Several things drove Cragen from his squadroom after the shift meeting. The lack of cohesion—the way his people used to support each other, detectives assisting primaries on their cases, the smooth hand-off from one shift to another, all sixteen working as one team despite the natural rivalries of the two shifts—was painful for Don to observe, especially when he knew it was his own fault.

_It's coming back, but not the way it should be… maybe whoever gets this place after me can repair things… lead them the way they should be lead…._

John's formality also hurt him.

_I lost a good friend in him... I think I regret what I did to him the most…._

But what made him grab his suit jacket and leave as though fleeing the scene was the memory of Beale's dinner plans. That the bureau chief had done almost exactly what Don feared still shook the captain to his core.

_Him cooking at my house is a wrinkle I didn't think of… but the rest—him coming over the night before the promotion list comes out... damn, but I wish he'd suggested a over-priced meal in public… now, I got to figure out what to do if he's really after me… how to trap him without getting trapped myself…._

Don recognized the dark blue Taurus parked in his driveway as soon as he turned the corner onto his street.

_It's Fin's day-off... what's he doing here ?_

He pulled in beside the Taurus....

_You'd think Fin would get enough of Fords at work to not own one himself...._

... shifting into "Park" before looking through his passenger window at his detective.

_Hip-hop on the radio... probably the first and only time for this driveway... always hard to read Fin's face, but I'd say he's not happy about being here...._

Fin did not meet his gaze before he removed his key and exited his vehicle. Cragen grabbed his suit jacket from his back seat and matched the act, remaining by his closed door while Fin stayed by his. The deep scowl on the detective's face and the way his eyes never quite met Cragen's gaze set Don on edge.

_A transfer request would get put on my desk... a formal complaint against me would go to downtown, not me... maybe Fin wants to chew me out again without the rest of the squad listening in... whatever this is, it can't be good...._

"Fin," he said, breaking the silence, "you need something?"

Don tried to make the question light and welcoming, but Fin responded by squaring his shoulders as though bracing himself for an unpleasant duty.

"I need to talk with you," Fin told him.

"Out here or inside?"

"Inside be good."

Don turned around, waving at Fin to follow him.

_Wish I didn't feel like there's a target on my back... this is so far out of what I expect from Fin, I don't know what to expect...._

Don led the way around the short hedge that separated the driveway from the front yard then up the walk to the front door. Fin silently followed, saying nothing even as Don held the screen door open for him. He did pause to check the interior, his eyes picking out the back door straight ahead of him in the kitchen, the stairs and garage door to his right, the two main rooms—living and dining—on his left.

While Fin scoped the place out, Don set his keys, suit jacket, and tie on the maple table in the entryway, leaving his holster clipped to his waist.

"You want anything?" he asked as he led Fin into the kitchen. "Water, iced tea—I can make coffee."

Don reached for the handle on his refrigerator and froze as his fingers touched it.

_Beale… putting his food in my fridge… I'm starting to sweat… stomach's cramping… throat just went dry…_

Fin's reply of "I'm good" forced Don to turn away from the fridge. He pointed at his kitchen table, waving his hand at the nearest chair in an attempt to hide its trembling.

"Want to sit down?"

Fin's gaze darted to the table at his side then he shifted his feet as though planting them firmly on the tile floor.

"I'll stand."

Don leaned back. As soon as he brushed against the kitchen counter, he jumped as though jolted.

_Beale… he'll prepare his dinner right where I'm standing…_

"Okay," he said, gulping out the word, "what can I do for you?"

Fin's habitual scowl softened until his expression was a perfect blank. Don shifted his weight on his feet, fighting against the urge to push Fin aside and bolt from the kitchen. Several moments passed, each counted by his heart pounding in his chest.

Finally, Fin began to speak.

"Cap'n, I've seen how stress can mess with a person—twist things until wrong looks like right," he said. "Saw it with the Rangers; seen it on the job; had it happen to me a couple times."

Slowly, Don clenched his fists, feeling each clammy finger as it çurled against his palms.

_Oh, boy—can I tell you about stress messing with a person… it's like I can see Beale working in here… working to trap me here…._

"I saw the stress twist you," Fin continued, "until you was someone I didn't know anymore. I saw it happen and...."

Fin's words faded from hearing, drowned by the sound of Don's own rough breathing. The kitchen swirled about him as he shivered from the panic chilling his veins.

"Cap'n, are you all right?"

_No… no, I need to sit down…._

A scrap of wood on tile brought a chair next to him. Don sank into it then he slumped forward to ease the ache in his chest and gut. A brush of air told him Fin was now squatting on his heels before him.

"Cap'n," he said, his voice thick with concern, "want me to call a bus?"

Don shook his head.

"I'll be okay," he stammered. "Give me a minute."

The stability of the chair supporting him, the security of being slumped over his knees in fetal position, the knowledge that Fin was there with him, all helped Don bring his emotions back under control. When the trembling ceased and warmth began to reach his fingers again, Don slowly rose until he was leaning against the chair back. Before him, Fin, still squatting before him, eyed Don warily.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, sort of," Don replied. "Panic attack—third one I've had. I'm seeing Dr. Olivet about what causes them."

_Well, it's somewhat true…._

Fin eased back on his heels.

"You're seeing a shrink?"

Don tried a smile at the approval in his detective's voice.

"I'm not shouting the news from the rooftops," he told Fin, "but yeah—I'm seeing a shrink. SOP for PTSD, OK?"

Fin snorted at the acronyms.

"Yeah, you're right. Good on you."

"Thanks. Let's hope it helps. You want a chair?"

Fin reached for the second chair then, with a grunt, moved to it.

"Used to be able to squat like that for hours," he said. "I'm getting old."

Before Don could say that it beat the alternative, Fin squared his shoulders again.

"Sir," he said, his words formal and precise, "I came here to say maybe me warning you about—"

Don raised both his hands to stop Fin.

_No—not your fault... not at all...._

"Fin," he said, "you have nothing to apologize for."

"But, Cap'n…."

Don shook his head and leaned forward to emphasize his words.

"If you had tried to say something, you'd have ended up on the same shit list as Elliot, Judith, John…."

Don let the list trail off, unwilling to name everyone he had wronged. Fin's nod accepted the truth in the captain's words.

"Got it," Fin told him, "but things be better if you hadn't gone off that way."

Don sank back in his chair.

_Oh, you don't know that half of it... I wish I could tell you—get your help… have you at my back… but Branch ordered me to keep this to myself… if I bring you in, it's the same as Elliot disobeying that direct order about Operation Chestnut… if I'm wrong about Beale, I could be risking your career—depends how vindictive the DA is… I can't do that… as much as I want to, I can't...._

"I agree with you on that," he replied. "So, you and me—we okay?"

Fin looked thoughtful for so long Don wondered if something else was bothering the man. When he finally met Don's gaze, the hint of a smile curved Fin's mouth.

"We're good if I get to drive Lau's Jag. That's it in your garage, ain't it?"

Don felt his ears go warm.

"Yes, it is."

"It running?"

"Like a champ. Let me get the keys."

Don rose from the chair and walked to the table in the foyer where he kept his key rings.

_A small price to pay for working things out with Fin… that's everyone but John giving me another change… not perfect, but better than I deserve… with my people back on track, I can focus on Beale… try and keep my act together…. only four days to go…._


	17. Contents Under Pressure: part three

mA/N: Remember, the rules, regulations, and procedures attributed to the NYCPD in this series of stories in no way represent reality; everything has been tailored to fit the needs of the plot.

Chivo: nickname meaning "goat."

Despite the turn L&O has taken in its twentieth season, in this AU, Donald Van Buren is the devoted husband of Anita Van Buren.

_RTCC means "Real Time Crime Center," a "massive data warehouse, which provides the 37,000-strong police department, the nation's largest, with almost immediate access to billions of records, including more than five million New York State criminal records, parole and probation files; 20 million New York City criminal complaints, emergency calls and summonses spanning five years; and 33 billion public records." I didn't use this is part one of this chapter so you get to see it again here._

Nina Cassady repeats a vulgar phrase a few times.

Main Entrance  
Mercy Hospital  
12 August (Thursday)

The north entrance to Mercy Hospital was a single glass door shaded by a dark blue awning Access was limited to doctors and hospital employees although, at quarter after six in the morning, few people of either category were using the entrance.

Ed Green and Nina Cassady were in a blue Nissan Altima, Cassady driving. She had parked in the first space beyond the "No Parking" zone, three car-lengths east of the north entrance. Green, in the passenger seat, had turned so he could focus on the vehicles passing by. He noted the passing of a red Dodge Neon then a white plumber's van that drove by a minute later.

While Green watched the street, Cassady tried to wrap her mind around what they were about to do.

_It's a sting operation designed to trap the people trying to kill Ed's former partner... the word has been spread about Fontana being discharged at six-thirty this morning... he will be wheeled out through this door by his fiancée to a medical transport van—except the van actually belongs to the security company watching over Fontana... the man in the wheelchair is one of their employees... according to Ed, Praesidium Services has swept and cleared the area... Ed said they even checked the roofs for snipers...._

Nina glanced at the entrance, careful not to attract attention to herself by staring too long at it.

_The plan is for the people who want Fontana dead to show up and pull a gun or something... if no one tries anything here, Ed and me will follow the van... that way, if anyone tries anything along the route, we'll be ready... should be a piece of cake... but, just in case, Ed told me to wear a vest—he's wearing one, too...._

She watched as Green jotted down the license number of a black Escalade that was driving past their Nissan.

_This is a righteous thing to do—preventing murder is part of our job... and Ed said I was a necessary part of this operation—not a observer... no more 'watch and learn'...._

Pride curved her lips into a grin, but nerves danced like butterflies in her stomach.

_I'm needed... that's the first time anyone has said that to me since I got here... I'm okay... I'll be fine... no way I'm going to screw this up...._

Green pocketed his pad and pen.

"There's the van," he told her.

Just as Ed said, a white Ford van with a raised 'turtle top,' its graphics announcing "Ambu-First Transport Services," finished rounding the corner then pulled to the curb outside the hospital entrance.

"Get the engine going, but leave it in Park."

Nina nodded and compiled. The van driver walked to the passenger side of the van and opened the double doors. He pushed a button and a flatbed lift began to slowly lower onto the sidewalk. The hospital entrance door then opened, and a woman in jeans and a blue t-shirt appeared. She said something to the van driver before ducking inside again. Nina noted the shield clipped to her belt and the shoulder holster with its Glock.

_That must be Otten... wonder if she's wearing a vest?_

Ed's cell phone chimed, interrupting Nina's wondering. Ed flipped it open and pressed the 'speaker' button.

"_Ed?" _a female voice asked. _ "How's the street look?"_

"Two possibilities," he replied. "A black Escalade belonging to Angelo "Chivo' Davila—it drove by a couple minutes ago. Also, a red Dodge Neon five minutes before it—Berto Pedreira owns one, but the plates don't match. Neither is in sight right—um, wait."

Ed twisted further around in his seat.

"Got an Escalade just coming around the corner. It's stopping in front of the medical building. Wheels look the same as on Chivo's."

"_Then I'll expect a drive-by. Thanks." _

Ed slipped the phone into his pocket then he turned to face Cassady.

"That was Otten. If anyone yells 'Gun' or if shots are fired, pull into the street and block that Caddy. I'll be heading for its driver's side so don't hit me."

Nina agreed solemnly as the butterflies switched from a waltz to a tango.

_I can do this... it's what I signed up for... real police work... no more walking a beat... this is it... this is it... oh, shit—this really is it...._

Green unlatched the passenger door and freed his weapon from its holster. Nina released the parking brake and adjusted the rear view mirror to get the parked SUV in its view. Behind them, the hospital door swung open and Otten, now wearing a cotton jacket over her weapon, pushed a wheelchair onto the sidewalk. The gray-haired man occupying the chair was dressed in a orange golf shirt and tan slacks with his arm in a sling.

"Damn," Ed remarked. "Dude got Joe's hair wrong."

Nina peered over her shoulder.

"Does it really matter?"

He shot Nina a scorn-filled glare.

"With what this has to be costing, he should look like Joe's twin brother."

The van driver took over the chair from Otten. As she stepped clear, Nina saw her eyes shift in the direction of the parked Escalade as the driver pushed the wheelchair with its decoy onto the lift.

"That Escalade's moving," Ed said. "You ready?"

Nina nodded then checked her mirrors. The passenger mirror showed the van driver raising the lift until it was level with the floor of the van. The decoy slumped in the chair as though too ill to support himself. The rear view mirror showed the black SUV nosing away from the curb.

_If he floors it, then this is for real...._

She mentally crossed her fingers as the butterfly tango was replaced by two-stepping porcupines. Behind her, the van driver pushed the wheelchair from the lift into the van just as a squeal of tires warned that the Escalade was now under full acceleration. Nina's hands tightened around the steering wheel as she shifted into Park then eased her foot on the brake.

"Gun!"

The shout came from Otten as she disappeared from view behind the van's open side door. Green jumped from the car and sprinted for the far side of the street. He took a position in front of a green Honda, his weapon drawn and aimed at the Escalade's windscreen.

_Oh, shit... _

Nina slipped her foot from the brake, tapped the gas, and spun the wheel. The moment the Nissan surged forward, she hit the brakes again while throwing it back into Park. The Nissan came to a halt by the Honda's front fender as she squirmed over the console, leaving the car through the open passenger door. With weapon in hand, she took a position between a parked car and the Nissan's trunk.

_Oh, shit...._

She raised her Glock, aiming for the driver's face. For an instant, his gaze locked with hers.

_Hispanic male, mid-twenties, mustache... eyes bugged out and arms braced on the steering wheel...._

At that moment, the buzz of rapid gunfire and the impacts against metal and glass drowned the tire yelps from the Escalade's panic braking. Nina saw the driver's head snap forward then back as the SVU hit the Nissan. The collision shoved the Nissan straight down the street, leaving Nina face-to-face with Escalade fender. Her arms fell limp at her sides as she gaped at her reflection in the black metal of its hood.

_Holy shit... holy shit... holy shit...._

Green dashed from the protection of the parked cars, his weapon held before him.

"NYPD," he shouted as he approached the driver's door. "Hands—get them where I can see them!"

His voice broke her fixation. Nina raised her own weapon just as Otten came at a run toward the SUV's passenger door while shouting the same order. She tried to echo Otten's command, but her lungs had no air and nothing came from her mouth but a wheezy gasp while Green and Otten repeated their commands.

"I said, 'Hands—now!" "Get them out!"

The driver stretched both hands to the windscreen. A second pair of hands, empty of weapons, appeared through the open side window.

_Holy shit...._

"Detective!"

_Holy shit...._

"Detective! Get that door open!"

Nina gaped at the older woman.

_Holy shit—she's yelling at me!_

She ran along the side of the SUV and grabbed the side door handle. Keeping behind its sweep, she yanked it open. Otten moved to cover the occupant.

"Back up," she ordered. "Back against that window—now!"

On the other side of the SUV, Nina heard her partner telling the driver to hit the pavement.

_I should do something... stop hiding and do something...._

She swallowed hard then stepped around the door. Inside the van, a young Hispanic male in a blue and white striped shirt and black nylon pants was pressed against the far side of the van. His hands were held at chest-level, empty with their palms toward Otten. At his feet, its stock overhanging the running board, was a AK-47, its clip curving away from Cassady.

"Use an evidence bag and get the weapon," Otten told her.

While the older woman kept her aim on the shooter, Nina pulled a plastic bag from her pocket and gingerly grabbed the rifle behind its pistol grip with her left hand. She pulled it from the van, almost dropping it due to its weight, then she backed away. Once clear of the door, Nina shifted her grip to the barrel and rested the rifle's stock on the pavement. She then raised her own weapon to cover the shooter.

Otten nodded her approval before ordering the shooter out of the SUV and onto the pavement. As he scrambled out, Nina asked if she should cuff him.

Otten shook her head as she reached for her restraints.

"I've got it," she replied. "Keep an eye on him while I check for more weapons."

Otten's pat-down found a wallet in his hip pocket and a semi-auto in his waistband, which she placed on the running board of the Escalade.

"You can secure that, too," she told Cassady. "I'll bet Ballistics will find it very interesting."

The man at her feet growled but said nothing intelligible while Otten finished checking his pockets. She then cuffed his hands behind his back and stepped back while drawing her weapon. At Otten's nod, Nina holstered her own Glock then fetched the handgun from the van, using a pen from her pocket to lift it by its trigger guard.

Green's voice came from the far side of the SUV.

"You doing okay?"

"We're good here," Otten replied. "You call for backup?"

"On its way. Driver's Angelo Davila. Who you got?"

Otten flipped open the shooter's wallet.

"Luis Acosta," she replied. "Is my car drivable?

Nina turned to look at the Nissan. The Escalade had caved in both doors and flattened its driver-side tires. Broken glass and trim parts littered the pavement and a puddle of dark pink liquid showed a transmission fluid line had ruptured somewhere underneath.

_Her car? I thought Ed had checked out an unmarked one... oh, shit...._

The dancing porcupines resumed their two-step inside Nina's stomach.

_This wasn't sanctioned... the lieu doesn't know about it... I am so screwed...._

SVU Squadroom  
12 August

_  
_On Munch's desk when he arrived that morning was a multi-page printout with the NYPD's RTCC watermark. After making a mug of tea, he read through the report.

_It's the list of possible suspects I requested yesterday... middle-aged men with a first name of Fred, Frederick, or any variation on it who lived near or east of Tompkins Square Park in 1996... I have those addresses, their current addresses if known, DL photos for those who drive, and their arrest records, if applicable... with any luck, one of these men killed Amy Choi...._

From over his shoulder came Donna Loudoun's morning greeting.

"Whatcha got there, John?"

"Our suspect list," he replied as he handed it to her. "Checking out all seventeen of them will give us something to do on this fine August day."

She flipped through the pages then shook her head.

"We have a meeting with Eddie Brown and his attorney at nine today—remember him? He's Carrie Brown's husband, the one she says threw her against a wall then raped her."

Munch peered over his lenses at Loudoun.

"You have the same charming qualities as a teething pit bull," he told her. "Nothing exists in your universe except your chew toy."

She thrust the report back at him.

"A case is not a toy, chew or otherwise."

"Fine," he said as he took the RTCC report from her hands. "You prep for Brown. I'll start compiling some six-packs."

Donna slid into her chair and began to arrange her folders and papers.

"You going to show those photos to the bus driver?" she asked.

John nodded. "And the parents. It's a long shot, but you never know."

As he and Donna worked, the rest of the detectives filled coffee mugs and ran through the routines that eased each of them into their work days. The only perturbations in the normal flow were Cragen's absence and Tutuola's greetings as he passed by his colleagues upon his arrival. Although Fin did not acknowledge it, his "Heys" and "How's it goin's" caused each detective to draw back in surprise before they all responded in kind.

Munch kept his attention on his photo arrays.

_Fin's talking to people again... wonder what thawed his glacier? Whatever it was, it wasn't warm enough to reach the deep freeze he stuck me in..._

He looked up and caught Olivia eying him with concern. John quickly returned his attention to his work.

_I don't want your pity—not over this... I was just fine before Fin and I'm just fine after Fin... he threw our friendship away over a photo of Otten... that's his problem, not mine...._

John called up a blank template on his computer; the force of his key strokes putting the lie to that thought. He concentrated on the repetitive work, cutting and pasting each photo into its spot in the array, until all seventeen had been placed in one of twenty-four spots. The empty seven places he filled with photos randomly selected to match the features of the other faces.

The meeting with Brown and his attorney went exactly as Munch expected.

_Brown denied raping his wife... he claimed the sex was 'ardent and consensual' and that his wife cooked up the rape story because she found a receipt from a mid-town hotel in his briefcase the morning after... now, we have to confirm his claim that the hotel receipt came from a liaison his best friend had—not Brown... I hate 'he said, she said' cases...._

Once back at their desk, Loudoun took on the task of calling the hotel while John prepped his photo arrays for printing.

"What the—?"

Loudoun's question drew John's attention from his computer screen. John looked up to see her indicating the captain's office. Through the slats of the window blinds, he could see Captain Cragen entering through its hallway door, Judith Otten right behind him.

"I thought she had today off," Donna whispered.

_So did I...._

While they watched, Cragen went to the window and shut each blind with a firm yank of its cord.

_That's not good... not good at all...._

Office of Jack McCoy, Executive Assistant District Attorney  
One Hogan Place  
12 August

_Neither heat nor sun nor idiot drivers shall stay this rider from his morning commute... although, if that bus had changed lanes ten feet sooner, some unlucky ME's assistant would be scrapping me off its rear wheel.... _

In his office, Jack McCoy mused on the dangers of motorcycling in Manhattan as he changed into clothes more suitable for court.

_I should think about leaving the bike at home… one of these days, I'm not going to see the opening car door or the pothole or the driver running the red light… and I don't bounce as well as I used to...._

He hung his jeans and denim jacket on the coat rack below his helmet on its shelf.

_Maybe, when the weather turns bad, I'll give up commuting… stick to riding country roads on my days off… and maybe not… I might not bounce well, but I'm not ready to declare myself 'old' yet…._

Next on his agenda, after opening the window blinds, was a read-through of his notes for the McGowan trial. He picked up his reading glasses….

…_not a sign of age—merely too much eyestrain…._

… and reviewed his plans for the trial.

_Call the Assistant ME who worked the body at the scene, the sergeant who found the blood-stained belt under the sofa in the front room, the tech who matched the victim's blood to the blood on the belt, the fingerprint investigator who matched McGowan's prints to the bloody ones found on the belt… then I call the victim's boss, who heard McGowan threaten the victim with a "good hiding" if he didn't repay the money owed him… I don't envy Linde—when he drew Anthony McGowan as a client, he got a hopeless case…._

Whenever someone passed his office door, he glanced up in expectation of his assistant's arrival.

_Alex is running very late today… not like her at all…._

Finally, fifteen minutes before McCoy had to leave for the courthouse, Borgia burst into his office.

"Sorry, Jack," she told him while setting her briefcase on the edge of his desk. "You won't believe what happened on my way in."

Jack put down the notes he was reading.

"Your bus almost hit a motorcyclist?"

Alex frowned in puzzlement at him.

"You know I don't ride the bus, Jack. I take the train. Why—did a bus almost hit you?"

To Jack, the worry in her voice seemed a little patronizing.

_I don't need my ADA thinking I'm too old and feeble to be riding…._

"I had an uneventful commute," he quickly replied. "Now, what about yours?"

Alex put her hand into her briefcase as though searching for something.

"On my way in, I got a call from Lynne Scott. She said she was making animal pancakes for her grandkids this morning and she remembered the phone call."

Knowing Alex's literal nature, Jack could not resist a question.

"Were these animal pancakes animal-shaped or animal-flavored?"

Alex rolled her eyes at her boss' weird sense of humor.

"Mrs. Scott only said she gave them blueberry eyes. She also said she was flipping over a kitty cat when she remembered how that nice Andrew Beale had left a message asking her to make the call to Skoda."

Jack froze.

_Andrew? That is the last name I'd have guessed…_

He set his elbows on his desk and leaned toward Alex, his interest piqued by her news.

"Did Scott say why?" he asked.

"According to her, Beale's message said his clerk was swamped, and he needed the report as soon as possible. He also gave her a fax number to give to Skoda."

_That doesn't make any sense... Andrew has his own clerk and an admin assistant plus plenty of interns and other people he can order around—same as me... why call a pancake-flipper at the Harlem office? _

He glanced at Alex, but the same confusion twisted her expression.

_Maybe there's more to the story...._

"Didn't this woman wonder why, if Andrew had time to call her, he didn't call Skoda himself?"

To his disappointment, Alex shrugged.

"I almost asked her that," she replied, "but I didn't want draw too much attention to it. You said to keep a low profile."

Alex pulled out a page from the sheaf of papers and laid it on Jack's desk.

"Here's what made me late. I checked with Personnel. A year ago March, Mrs. Scott filled in for a HIU secretary who was on maternity leave. That's her time sheet."

_Andrew was still in charge of HIU then... Branch didn't move him to Sex Crimes until after Liz won election to the bench... that's a long time for him to remember a temp…._

Jack read over the time card then he peered at Alex over his reading glasses.

"Andrew must have been very impressed with her efficiency."

Alex stifled a snort at her boss' wit then she handed him another report from her briefcase.

"I also pulled up the cases Fontana worked in both Bronx and Manhattan Homicide. He didn't work any gang-related homicides while Beale was at HIU, and he hasn't worked any cases handled by the Sex Crimes Bureau since Beale took charge."

McCoy examined the time line for Fontana's cases.

_She's right… no overlap between them… no chance Fontana screwed up one or more of Beale's prosecutions... lucky man, that Andrew...._

Alex interrupted his mental grousing.

"I've heard Bureau Chief Beale and the Bronx DA are good friends. Do you suppose Beale could have done this to help Martinez out—sort of spread the complaining around so it didn't look like Martinez had a grudge against Fontana?"

Her question hung in the air between them.

_Andrew had to know it would piss off Branch when he found out... I guess that's why he used Scott—less chance of anyone hearing about it...._

"This is turning into a turf war between Martinez and Arthur," he replied, "which makes it no longer our concern. You go on to the courthouse and check on our witnesses. I'll call Arthur to give him the news then I'll meet you there."

He reached for his phone. Alex did not budge.

"What about Van Buren and Green?" she asked. "I have to tell them something. They're still really mad at me."

"I'll warn Arthur that he needs to call Manhattan Homicide and smooth some ruffled feathers."

He picked up the phone receiver, but the ADA held her ground.

"And what about Fontana?" she asked. "That call ended his career. Shouldn't we tell him who made it?"

Jack turned his wrist to check his watch.

"Alex, I don't have time to call everyone in the city—not right now, anyway. Besides, the first deputy commissioner ended Fontana's career, not Andrew and not Martinez."

He watched as the blunt fact cracked Borgia's determination.

"Yeah," she admitted, "you're right. They might have asked, but he made the decision. I'll see you at the courthouse."

"The second I hang up, I'm on my way," Jack promised as he dialed the DA's office number.

As soon as Sarah put Arthur Branch on the line, Jack told him what Alex had discovered. The DA's long pause after hearing the news caught Jack's attention, but Branch's response set his mind at ease.

_Arthur said it sounds like the Bronx DA jumped our fence and serviced our cows... interesting metaphor to describe Martinez getting Andrew's help in paying Fontana back for ruining his prosecutions… not that I blame him… my life certainly is easier with Fontana gone… but it's wrong the way Martinez did it...._

The DA's only reply to Alex's request that Van Buren and Fontana be told was a dismissive grunt.

_Suits me... there's been too much meddling in police matters here already... the further I stay from it, the better...._

When the call was finished, Jack packed his trial notes into his case.

_Arthur's welcome to this one… I've got more than enough on my plate…._

Office of Lt. Anita Van Buren  
Manhattan Homicide  
12 August

After listening to what Green and Cassady had to say about the morning's activities, Anita Van Buren assumed her "You should thank God I'm not allowed to shoot you" expression and stance.

_Lips pursed, feet planted, hands on hips... now to shake my head and tell them what's going down thanks to this stunt they pulled... didn't even bother to tell me ahead of time... risking not only three experienced detectives—okay, two and Cassady—but also hospital personnel, Praesidium employees, and any unlucky civilians who might have happened by...._

"This is straight from the Chief of Dees," she began, "and I agree with him completely...."

She paused to drive home the importance of her next words.

"Good for you."

_Chief Conrad's exact words... he's as disgusted with Balzano as I am... not that it does him any more good than it does me...._

Van Buren raised a hand to point first at Green's grin, then at Cassady's.

"Don't you go repeating that to anyone," she warned them, "because the chief also said you're damn lucky your stunt worked."

She waited until Green and Cassady had their smiles under control before continuing.

"Since it did work, and since Davila and Acosta are being extremely helpful over in Interrogation, you both are off the hook—no written reprimands, no suspensions, no loss of pay. However...."

Van Buren glared at each detective in turn.

"You get any more crazy notions, you tell me first. Got it?"

Both Green and Cassady nodded.

"Now, see if you two can look like I just chewed you both a new one then get out of here."

She continued to glare through their joint "Yes, Ma'am" and their departure. As soon as the office door was closed again, Anita turned to face her window. Only then did she allowed herself to grin.

_Damn, but that was fine... perfectly timed, too... Balzano is tied up with CompStat on Thursdays... he won't even hear about this until we've got signed confessions and our version out to the media... he might choke on it, but he'll have to swallow it just the way Ed and Otten cooked it...._

Anita treated herself to one more happy "Damn!" then she forced her grin into a more solemn expression before returning to her paperwork.

The Veneto Club  
17 Battery Place  
12 August

The to-do list for Judith Otten's day-off looked something like this:

1. Catch and arrest threats to Joe  
2. Placate the brass  
3. Get my car towed to shop  
3a. Listen as shop owner declares the car "probably totaled"  
3b. Listen to auto insurance agent laugh at my question about coverage  
3c. Arrange for rental car  
4. Listen to Cragen yell at me  
5. Apologize:  
5a. for not telling him ahead of time  
5b. for risking his promotion  
5c. for anything else that comes up  
6. Find out what the consequences are  
7. Check on plans with caterers and Veneto Club  
8. Spend rest of day with Joe

Item #1 gave her a new respect for armored vehicles.

_I didn't expect an automatic rifle... they really wanted the job done right... those impacts to the windows shattered the outside layer—the glass went white from all the tiny cracks... but they barely dimpled the inside of the glass... wow...._

Item #3 and its sub-items weren't on her original list.

_I can see Ed's reasoning... he had to keep the perps on the scene... without lights, radio, and siren, pursuit in my car was dangerous... but he could have parked further away... given Davila room to stop... we should have planned that part out better... or rented a car beforehand...._

Items #4 and #6 were not as bad as she had feared.

_Cragen said that, off the record, both he and Chief Gordon approved of what we did... officially is another story... I figured Ed and I would be suspended with Cassady protected because we told her nothing... still would have been worth it... I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking over Joe's shoulder for hitmen... getting a verbal reprimand from a smiling captain is better than anything I expected...._

Item #5b puzzled her.

_When I apologized to Don for doing this so close to the promotion list coming out—not that I had much choice in the timing... he waved my apology away like he didn't care about advancement anymore... then he changed the subject... he told me Van Buren had called to say Davila gave up the names of two of Crespo's men who are planning to kill Joe... warrants were being drawn up as she spoke so they should be in custody later today... I wish this ended the danger, but all it does is eliminate the threats we know about... it still was worth it... even with losing my car, it was worth it...._

Item #7 entailed a meeting with the banquet manager at the Veneto Club.

_The club can seat eighty in its banquet hall... just barely enough... their kitchen will handle the _treif_ food with a separate buffet for the kosher... the banquet manager is in contact with the caterers so that's under control... he also has arranged for the room to be set up for the ceremony then for tables to be brought in while we take photos... I was hoping for an outdoor wedding, but given Joe's lack of mobility, we'll have to make do with this room...._

Judith left the club satisfied that everything was progressing as the club, she slid her notepad into her purse then removed her keycard. The tasteful décor of the Veneto Club extended to the hall outside its entrance. Cherry wainscoting with plastered walls painted a rich parchment matched the interior of the club, but the floor was a pattern of polished stone that matched the main lobby and stood up to the heavy foot traffic from the elevators and stairs.

_This floor is the highest one the public can access in this building—a good thing as far as Joe's safety is concerned... you need to swipe your resident card through the reader before the elevators will go higher... even the fire stairs have access readers to get out of the stairwell above this floor... if you're not a resident, you must ask Security in the lobby to override the elevator settings for you... Joe arranged for my card and for a parking space before he was injured... saves me a lot of effort now that he's laid-up...._

When she had her card in hand, Judith walked to the leftmost elevator with its lit 'Up' arrow. She stood further back than most New Yorkers did, leaving a good five feet between her and the sliding door.

_Never know who or what is going to come out when the doors open...._

What did come out, after the arrival alert chimed and the doors opened, drove Judith back another two steps.

_First Deputy Commissioner Anthony Balzano... in a light gray suit and a really ugly blue tie... intent on the Blackberry he's holding to his ear...._

She edged sideways, away from the club's entrance, in the hope Balzano would be too focused on his call to notice the only person in the hall. She saw his head turned toward the club's entrance then, to her distress, Balzano's gaze swept the hall to land on her. His deep-set eyes narrowed as he ended his call with a "George, I'll get back with you."

Judith swallowed hard as she tried to smile in greeting.

_Please let him be late to lunch... don't let him know about this morning yet.... _

As the elevator closed behind him, the commissioner approached Judith, stopping an arm's length away. His gaze remained fixed on her face as though pinning her for dissection.

"Detective Otten," he said. "Fancy meeting you here."

Judith lost the smile and straightened as though at attention.

"Commissioner, sir," she said, unsure of what the proper response might be.

Balzano shifted his gaze to the club entrance then back again, a quick check that barely broke his focus on her.

"Just so you know," he said, his voice a harsh whisper. _"Meglio soli che male accompagnati."_

The intensity in his words set Judith back on her heels.

_'It's better to be alone than with bad companions'... what the hell does that mean?_

She started to ask, but Balzano interrupted her.

"_Hai capito_?" he demanded. "Do you understand?"

Before she could respond, the doors of the furthest elevator opened to let out a trio of men in golf clothes. They went straight into the club, but their brief presence distracted the commissioner. He checked his watch then glared again at Judith.

"I hope you do," he said, his deep-set eyes much too dark for her to read. "When you see Fontana, give him my best."

With that, Balzano turned and entered the club. As soon as he was out of sight, Judith rushed to the elevator and hit the UP button. To her relief, the doors opened, giving her a refuge from Balzano's strange behavior. She immediately pushed the button for Joe's floor then she stood by the panel and shook with rage.

_Oh, I understand... bad companions... fine way to refer to Joe... and that crack about 'give him my best'... it's the same as saying 'See that target on your back, Fontana? I put it there'... I can't believe the First Dep would gloat over what he did to—oh, shit... _

The real message behind the commissioner's words suddenly hit her. Judith sank against the side of the elevator.

_Balzano was talking to George—Chief Conrad... he knows what I did this morning... and how I did it to help Joe...._

She began to shake hard enough to rattle the panel behind her.

_That wasn't a gloat... it was a warning to me... I'm next… and I just gave him the rope to hang me with...._


	18. Contents Under Pressure: part four

Kasher: to make a vessel, pot, or cooking area suitable for kosher meal preparation

IDF: Israeli Defense Force

Area 3 is the Chicago Police Department's north administrative section (like a borough for the NYPD). Its headquarters is on W. Belmont Avenue and it covers the lakeside north of Madison Street (I think—the CPD website is even less user-friendly than the NYPD's current iteration.)

R63AMG—Mercedes-Benz's four-wheel drive SUV. Fornasari: a maker of Italian SUVs—two door, 600 hp, price around $120,000

FOIA: Freedom of Information Act, the law that allows people to get copies of any files the government may have compiled on them. Back in Baltimore, Munch requested a copy of his FBI file; it was distressingly thin for someone who considered himself a major threat to "The Man" in his youth.

Goy: Hebrew and Yiddish for anyone who is not Jewish

Tom Gha Gai: coconut chicken soup, a Thai dish

Bradleys: the Bradley M2 / M3 Tracked Armored Fighting Vehicles: /projects/bradley/

Intelligence Division: NYPD's counter-terrorism group

Fontana cusses in this chapter. I give Chester Lake some history; canon doesn't mention military service.

Residence of Joseph Fontana  
17 Battery Place  
12 August (Thursday)

Fontana hated to admit it, but the trip home from the hospital had kicked his butt.

_Elevator to the hospital's rooftop helipad... private helicopter to the Port Authority heliport... from there, a limo to my building... armed guards with earpieces watching over me the whole time... the president himself isn't this protected... except he doesn't pay the Secret Service out of his own pocket... it all sounded cushy, but moving in and out of all those vehicles hurt like hell... and, despite all the security, I kept looking over my shoulder—just in case someone missed something that would leave me dead... by the time I got here, I was beat...._

With some help from his care-takers, a decent bath and a shave followed next.

_I thought about skipping the razor until I got my shield back, but Judith said she'd rather to see the mustache in all its solo glory... smart woman, my Judith...._

Now, garbed in a plush cotton bathrobe, and his cast comfortably supported by a stack of pillows, Joe lay back on his bed and breathed a sigh of relief. From the hall leading to his bedroom, he could hear his two Praesidium operatives, Arndt and Meron, talking.

_They've taken over the second bedroom.... it's between here and the foyer—a good tactical position... they're the day watch… Arndt's ex-Rangers and my physical therapist... Meron's ex-IDF and will handle the cooking... that's why Judith had the kitchen _kashered _already... Meron knows not to screw up all her kosher cleaning... one of the many changes to my home while I was in the hospital...._

Joe looked up at the black metal pole that ran from floor to ceiling by his pillow. Curved grab bars and the trapeze attached to it provided support for shifting positions while lying down, and for getting into and out of bed.

_Nick put two more poles like it by my favorite chair and by the desk... solid, good design—they almost look like they belong there.... the bathroom hand rails and grab bars he installed match my cabinet hardware... he must have measured the walker because all my furniture's been shifted to give it room to get by... and he took up the floor before installing the physical therapy equipment—can't gouge or mar what isn't there... Nick said it's no problem to re-lay the wood when I'm finished with the therapy... he got a lot done in the week he was here... I need to call him... tell him how great everything looks...._

His throat tightened and, to Joe's surprise, his eyes moistened as he thought about how his brother had dropped everything to come help out.

_Nick and Judith... and Ed... and Van Buren... and Munch... and calls from my parents and nephews... I even heard from some of the guys from Area 3... Carlton and Wilkes are coming for the wedding—they said they need to see it to believe it... and I'm tearing up over that, too... must be something in those pills I'm taking...._

As a distraction, he picked up the TV remote. The flat screen mounted at the corner of the bedroom, preset to CNBC with the sound muted, told him that the markets were mixed and the dollar up.

_Great... I'm not broke yet...._

Joe then flipped to WYNY to catch up on the day's news.

_Cubs lost to Houston—damn...._

He paid no attention to the weather...

_Can't go outside thanks to the possible threat of snipers..._

... but the lead local story grabbed him by the throat.

_That's Mercy Hospital... and that's Judith's car—what the hell happened?_

His heartbeat and blood pressure dropped as the reporter on the scene explained how a police sting operation had caught two would-be killers after they shot up a decoy ambulance. Judith, Ed, and Cassady were mentioned by name while he was not.

_Wonder how they managed to finesse that one? I really appreciate it—last thing I need is another "disgraced detective" story... but Judith shouldn't be pulling stunts like that one... what if she'd been in her car?_

The thought made his left shoulder and arm, his ribs, and his innards throb.

_No, I don't like it... I hired security guys to keep me safe... it's their job, not hers... I've gonna have to talk to her... afterward, when she sees it my way, I'll see about buying her a new car... something nice... maybe an R63AMG... 6.3 liter engine... 503 horsepower... zero to sixty in less than five seconds... unless she'd rather have a Range Rover... or a BMW X5... or maybe a Fornasari...._

The next thing he knew, Arndt was standing over him.

"Sorry to wake you, he said, but your attorney is on the phone."

Joe took the phone from the operative and said, "What?"

_"Is that any way to greet your favorite legal counsel?"_

Dworkin's cheery voice made Fontana want to groan in disgust.

"I feel like crap," he told his lawyer. "What do you want?"

_"To tell you that I ran into Alexandra Borgia at the courthouse and she still won't have sushi with me."_

This time, Joe let the groan out.

"I don't give a damn about your failures with the females."

_"Maybe I should try tapas,"_ Dworkin replied, sounding completely unfazed by his client's crack. _"However, she did take pity on me long enough to tell me she has identified the persons who requested your evaluation from Dr. Skoda."_

Joe struggled to sit up, but the phone in his right hand and the cast on his left defeated him.

"Damn it," he cursed the effort. "Who?"

Dworkin's chuckle drove his blood pressure up a dozen points.

_"Patience, Fontana. First, I need to know if, during your tenure with Bronx Homicide, you had any run-ins with the Bronx DA?"_

Joe pictured Francisco Martinez at the last time he had seen him.

_We were on the courthouse steps... maybe a month before Captain Eggers suggested I get the hell out of his unit... Martinez' EADA had just blown the Carlos Sevilla case and the DA showed up so they could double-team the blame on me... things got heated... Martinez was yelling in Spanglish and I was defending myself in Italian... yeah, I guess that counts as a run-in...._

"We didn't see eye-to-eye on some things," Fontana admitted. "Minor stuff, really."

There was a pause on Dworkin's end of the call then he said, _"Don't take this wrong, Fontana, but does this 'minor stuff' somewhat resemble swirlies and suspect beat-downs?"_

Joe's blood pressure jumped again.

"Look, you little twerp—"

_'"It's okay, Fontana. Your checks are clearing so I'm still on your side. The reason I ask is: according to the lovely and smart Alexandra Borgia, Martinez and a friend of his named Andrew Beale both requested your evaluation."_

This time, Joe managed to struggle into a sitting position.

"Who the hell is Andrew Beale?" he demanded.

_"He is the Manhattan Sex Crimes Bureau Chief and your intended's boss. Ever meet him?"_

"No," Joe replied, "never even seen him. Why would he want my psych report?"

He almost could hear Dworkin's teeth bite back a sarcastic reply before he answered, _"Best guess is that the Bronx DA used Beale to leverage his demand, making it look like the Manhattan DA's office also wanted you out. This forced Commissioner Balzano to choose between the goodwill and cooperation of two district attorneys' offices or you. You lost."_

Fontana shook his head, too shocked to remember that his lawyer could not see him.

"Are you saying I got screwed over because I butted heads with the Bronx DA?"

_"Could be. Even if it's not true, we should add Martinez and Beale to a civil suit against Balzano and the department. They definitely were involved, and the more people we blame for you being left open to threats and physical attacks, the better your chances for a settlement."_

Fontana shook his head to deny the suggestion.

_We already had this conversation..._

"Look," he told Dworkin, "all I want is my shield back. Suing Balzano won't help me get it."

_"As you wish, but you should wait until the hospital bills start arriving before saying 'No.'"_

Dworkin ended the call with a promise to call when he had more info. Joe let his cell phone drop to the nightstand then he lay back against his pillows.

_I can't believe it... I get kicked off the force... then I almost get killed twice—three times, if you count Judith's stunt this morning... I lose two fingers and get laid up for months... my Benz goes to the scrapheap... and all because Francisco fucking Martinez doesn't like me... if that's really true, the second I'm walking again, I'm going straight to his office and I'm planting one right on his nose... see how he likes being flat on his back...._

Fantasies of how the Bronx DA should pay for his crimes took Joe back to slumberland.

SVU Squadroom  
12 August

Captain Cragen tried to dance around it, but the big question at the shift meeting was "What happened to Otten?" By the time the meeting had started, the betting pool was fully stocked with guesses.

John Munch, who had ignored his partner's urging to call Otten and find out, listened to the betting with amusement.

_I asked Don about this when I ran into him in the hall… he said the matter was closed... like that will stop speculation...._

He leaned back in his chair with his feet propped up on the open drawer of his desk. Across the squadroom, the captain, after a long sigh, finally gave his audience the info they wanted.

"Judith received a verbal reprimand. Now, Olivia—what's the status of your...."

Munch tuned him out again, more interested in the crest-fallen faces of those whose five bucks were going to Dan Womack for his "she got a good talking-to" bet than Benson's case update.

_Good for Dan... and good for Otten for getting away with it...._

When it was his turn to update his and Loudoun's cases, John remained in his chair.

"We've been all over the neighborhood, but we can't find anyone who had heard or saw Eddie Brown abuse his wife. There have been no domestic calls to their address, and none of Carrie Brown's friends ever heard her complain about her husband."

John spread his hands to show his frustration.

"Either Eddie went from loving husband to wife-raper in one big jump or Carrie is telling us a tall one."

"We'll have their financials and LUDs some time tomorrow," Donna added. "Maybe we'll find an answer in them. As to the Choi cold case, we showed photos of the possibles to the parents and the bus driver, but we got nothing. Munch and I will start interviewing each of the seventeen men tomorrow."

John stared at his feet.

_You two look so comfortable... enjoy the respite... your next days will be spent tracking down each of those seventeen men... walking sidewalks, climbing stairs... probably all for nothing... Amy Choi's file will get put away, our additions showing that we failed her again...._

With the meeting over, John grabbed his take-home file of case notes then rose to his feet. Across the aisle, Couch and Fin were confirming plans to head to McMullen's for a beer. The mention of alcohol attracted attention; by the time John had reached the hallway, Donna, Olivia, and Chester had joined them, Elliot giving dinner with his family as an excuse. John waved off Benson's "Coming with us, John?" and kept moving.

_If Fin wanted me there, he'd have invited me... besides, Connie is meeting me at my place... we're going out for Thai...._

His subway ride was uneventful as was his walk from the station to his building. Nothing pinged his radar until he reached his apartment's door where, through his apartment door, he heard the sound of female voices.

_Plural... Connie has a key so it's her and someone else...._

He paused before putting his key in the lock.

_However, there are other possibilities—a gathering of ex-wives prepared to give back my copious alimony payments... neighbor ladies breaking in because they ran out of tea during their Mah Jongg game... a flock of female Federal agents come to apologize for giving me the wrong FOIA folder...._

John grinned at the mental image that last possibility brought to mind.

_Depending on how apologetic they were, that one could get kinky... but I'm probably hearing Connie and Otten—no chance of group sex_ _there...._

He let himself in and quietly closed the door behind him. The layout of his place, its hall offset from the entrance, kept him from seeing whomever was talking at the far end of it.

_But I can hear them more clearly—it is Connie and her sister-in-law back in my bedroom... Otten sounds upset...._

That the two women were in his bedroom did not surprise John.

_I really should buy some furniture... I have a desk and chair, which is where I surf the 'Net, do my research, eat most of my meals, and read... and my bed... the bookcases don't count as furniture—they're necessities...._

He quietly dropped the case notes on his desk then he tiptoed down the hall, stopping short of the turn into the bedroom to listen. From inside the room, he could hear Otten's voice as she told Connie about her day.

"Joe thinks" she was saying, "Balzano meant that threat for him, not me."

"Well," Connie replied, "Joe is a little self-centered. You have to allow for that."

John raised an eyebrow at the mention of a threat.

_I'd think Joe's threat quota had been filled already…._

Then he snorted at Connie's characterization.

_Saying he's a little self-centered is like saying the CIA only collects newspaper clippings…._

"Joe's afraid," Otten next said, "I'll face a disciplinary hearing for what I did this morning if he doesn't drop his appeal."

Connie's reply began with a long "Uh," one that John mentally echoed. He also agreed with the rest of her reply.

"Did you tell Joe that dropping his appeal isn't an option?"

John nodded his agreement.

_Damn right it isn't... I've been to family dinners—ones where Fontana and Otten weren't present... Joe's getting the benefit of the doubt from them, in part because he is fighting his termination tooth and nail... if he gives up, it will look like he really is dirty... it won't be Derek alone objecting to the marriage... it will be the Ottens and the Fogels _en masse_... they can live with Joe being a _goy _and a reformed womanizer__, but they won't accept a disgraced ex-police... that's where they draw the line...._

Connie must have made the same point because Otten's reply spoke to John's concern.

"Oh, I know, and I've explained all that to Joe. He said he was marrying me, not my family, and that protecting me from rat bastards like Balzano was more important than making my family happy. I told him to concentrate on getting reinstated, and that I would handle Balzano. That's when he laughed."

John winced.

_Bad move... never hit Otten in her pride... she doesn't back down and she fights dirty...._

"Then what?" Connie asked.

"ThenI hit him right where it hurts," Otten said.

John flinched as he hoped she meant that figuratively.

"I looked at him and I said, 'How are you going protect me when you can't even keep yourself safe?'"

"Ouch."

"Yeah. Joe went pale then he clammed up—wouldn't say a word. I finally left. What can you say to a man who won't say anything back?"

John quietly backed away from the the bedroom, the conversation continued.

_Now, they're bitching about how men always shut women out... ladies, we do it because we can't win and, even when we admit defeat, you still don't shut up... just like now—Otten explained what happened and Connie gave her opinion—so why are they're still talking? At this rate, I'll be eating supper and breakfast alone...._

John considered striding into his bedroom and taking charge of the conversation.

_Yeah, right—barge in on two women busy slagging men... I might as well jump into a meat grinder and save myself some pain... which leaves only one option...._

He turned and headed for the kitchen. There, he leaned against the counter and pulled out his cell phone.

_If nothing else, maybe I'll get a dinner invite for my efforts... let Connie and Otten talk until they starve to death...._

His call was answered by a terse "What?" growled with a Midwestern accent.

"It's Munch," John replied. "You don't have your bodyguards screening your calls?"

_"The line's tapped,"_ Fontana replied. _"Besides, I was expecting a call."_

John bit back a laugh.

"Don't hold your breath waiting, Joe. Otten's here at my place with Connie, both of them moaning about how all men are scum."

_"I don't deserve that. Judith's the one who's wrong here, not me."_

John bit back a laugh.

"You're still the one who has to apologize," he said. "Doesn't matter if you mean it or not so long as you say the magic words."

_"Yeah, yeah—I know the drill."_

Fontana paused as though collecting his thoughts.

_"Thing is, Judith said I couldn't protect myself and that's sort of true. I hired Praesidium because I let someone who hates my guts get close enough to me to—well, let's call it too close for comfort. The night I got hit, I made myself the perfect target. If I'd followed instructions, I'd have nothing to apologize to Judith for."_

John chuckled ruefully.

_That's not true... being male means always having to say 'I'm sorry....'_

"So you admit you need someone to watch your back, but you don't want that someone to be Otten?"

_"You got it, pal. I'm supposed to protect her—not the other way around."_

"But she's police. You have to give her space to be one."

The low growl that came through his phone confirmed Joe's last statement.

_Man's straight out of the 1950s... which means today's spat won't be his last...._

John's stomach rumbled, a reminder that his goal was not relationship mending.

_Time to wrap this up...._

"Call Otten," he told Fontana. " Tell her how worried you were about her this morning. Say you need her help and advice. She'll take it from there, and everything will be fine."

_"You think?"_

"Yes, I think."

_Actually, I doubt it, but there is a bowl of Tom Gha Gai soup calling my name...._

Joe then said, _"Then I'll call her right now. Thanks and I owe you another one."_

"No problem, my friend," John replied.

John ended the call and began counting down the seconds, reaching eleven before hearing a cell's ring from the back of his apartment. He stayed where he was, not wanting to hinder Otten on her way out the door. Less than a minute later, she was gone and Connie was before him, her hands firmly planted on her hips.

"I heard you come home," she told him. "Were you listening in?"

John peered at her over his lenses and smiled.

_I like it when you call my place 'home....'_

"I thought so," she told him. "Did you have anything to do with that very timely phone call from Joe?"

One step took him out of the kitchen and into the hall, where he grandly gestured toward the apartment's entrance.

"Could be. How about we discuss that possibility over Thai food?"

Office of the Manhattan District Attorney  
One Hogan Place  
12 August

As much as Arthur Branch wanted time to mull over the news from McCoy, his schedule did not permit it until late in the afternoon.

_Meetings with Appeals, HIU, and a rep from the Mayor's office… lunch with a few of my campaign contributors—have to keep them happy because an unhappy cow won't give down when you need her to… a sit-down with Councilman Baker—man's a steer on roller skates—no brains, no balls, and no control… only things keeping him in office are his family connections and those aides of his… Bertie Reynolds was a pleasure to work with and his new one, Tullia Something-or-other, seems just as good...._

Now, with Sarah gone home and his office door shut to make it look like he also had left for the day, Arthur poured himself a glass of Scotch. Before him were the notes he had taken during his morning phone call from McCoy along with Borgia's research, which had been delivered to Sarah earlier that afternoon.

_So, Martinez talked my bureau chief into helping him get rid of Fontana... guess I'll should sit Andrew down and have a serious talk with him... explain that Manhattan doesn't do the Bronx' dirty work—don't matter what kind of friend Martinez might be...._

He underlined the part of his notes that bothered him.

_Routing that call to Skoda through the Harlem office... Andrew went to a lot of trouble to hide his tracks... we don't audit phone records that closely... odds are no one would ever notice even if he had his own clerk made the call... why go through the extra effort?_

Arthur glared at the papers on the desk before him.

_Jack thinks this was all Martinez' doing—Andrew was merely a way to put more pressure on Balzano... but the way it was done is too devious, too complicated... I know Andrew... if there's a way to twist something to his benefit, he'll find it... I admire that trait in my attorneys, but I fear it in my rivals... especially one as politically savvy as Andrew... rumor has it that Andrew wouldn't turn down a chance to run against me... he's got the experience... the connections... the need to be top rooster in the chicken pen...._

He took a sip of his Scotch.

_Sure wish New York lawyers drank bourbon... bunch of damn liberals—ignoring a fine American drink... so, what does helping the Bronx DA get for Andrew? He already has Martinez' friendship... I'm certain he'll support Andrew if and when he decides to run for DA... but leaning on the first deputy commissioner won't win Tony's vote—in fact, it might alienate the entire NYPD brass... Andrew will never win election without the support of New York's Finest... why would he make such a bone-head move?_

Arthur lowered his hand to the handle of the locked lower drawer of his desk where he kept papers that needed to be hidden from prying eyes.

_This makes two unexpected accusations about Andrew... first, Captain Cragen's fear that Andrew is a sexual predator... now this... one has Andrew as a top dog—the other has him as a hanger-on, a sycophant... but the two don't square with each other nor with Andrew's reputation and track record...._

The memory of Don Cragen sitting across his desk, willing to trade his career to prove his hunch, nagged at him.

_Much as I hate to admit it, I find it easier to picture Andrew stalking his subordinates than to see him risking his career to carry water for Martinez... 'course, I also find it easier to picture Andrew standing on his head while he whistles 'Dixie'... besides, Stabler and Benson put that one to rest... maybe Andrew had his own reasons for getting Fontana out of the way... except Borgia's research shows the two of them never crossed paths...._

Arthur rested his fingers on the drawer handle then he pulled them away to reach for his desk phone.

_It won't hurt to find out if Fontana knows Andrew... at worst, a couple of detectives go on a wild goose chase... at best, I get some dirt on a potential rival... something that might keep me the top rooster and Andrew scratching in the sand for my leavings...._

_  
_McMullen's Tavern  
384 W. 40th Street  
12 August

Situated in the shadow of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, McMullen's Tavern had many qualities to recommend it. The chairs were comfortable and only one table in the place wobbled. Stan, the owner, kept the pool tables tight and level. Drink prices weren't godawful. It was close enough to walk to, and the parking garage across the street gave those who needed a cab ride home a place to leave their cars. Best of all, you could eat the bar food and be certain it would stay down. In short, the cop bar was a good transition between the squadroom and home, whatever and wherever home might be.

The SVU detectives were at a table in the back corner, away from the restroom traffic who might stagger into Lake's crutches or sore leg. Orders of food had been eaten and rounds of beer had been drunk. Without saying as much, the five had celebrated Fin's return to camaraderie by treating him as though nothing had happened.

_Which means we don't know why he came around... if it means having him blow up again if I ask, then it's not worth knowing...._

Olivia had bought the last round, more to keep the conversation going than because she wanted a fourth beer.

_We've covered Judith's love life, Cragen's chances for promotion, the latest gossip from One P.P., politics, celebrity sex news, how much cop shows suck, and how great it will be to finally get a pay raise... right about now, we'd be getting the scoop on Munch's latest conspiracy research... only he's not here... that means someone has to fill the gap...._

"So, Couch," Donna asked, "how come you're not with the Intelligence Division? I thought they grabbed all the Arab speakers."

"I applied," he replied, "along with nine hundred others. Guess they thought I'd be better as a precinct liaison."

Donna aimed her beer glass at him, the contents sloshing dangerously near its edge.

"They turned you down? Why? You got the experience, the languages. You know hand-to-hand, and you look sort of Muslim—all Sheik of Araby—well, kind of."

Olivia eyed her friend warily.

_Someone's got her beer googles on... Couch looks like he should be tossing pizza dough, not pita...._

Sofarelli shook his head.

"My accent isn't authentic enough for undercover work. Besides, they also wanted military experience, which I don't have."

"How come?" Fin asked.

"I'd already seen the world," Couch said with a shrug. "The thought of spending a few more years overseas made me happy I couldn't be drafted and I didn't have to enlist."

"You might have stayed stateside," Chester told him. "My first and last assignment was Fort Benning down in Georgia."

Fin perked up at his statement. "Doing what?" he asked.

"Maintaining Bradleys for the Infantry Training Brigade. You stationed there?"

"75th Rangers," Fin replied. "Bradley's a damn fine vehicle. When were you there?"

Olivia turned to Donna and Couch.

"That's it for them," she warned in a low voice. "Once the military talk starts, they're lost to the world. I've seen Elliot and Fin go around for hours—Marines versus Army, Somalia versus Kuwait, even whose dress uniform is snazzier."

She waved her hand at Chester and Fin, neither of whom noticed.

"We might as well leave them here and head home."

Couch slid his chair back from the table.

"I'll send over another pitcher on my way out," he said. "Least I can do for a couple of veterans."

Long Island Expressway  
Approaching Glen Oaks, NY  
12 August

_Creeping along at thirty miles under the posted limit... this is what I get for leaving work on-time... if I'd pulled four hours of OT, I'd have the road almost to myself...._

The radio's traffic report promised Stabler no relief from the slowdown.

"... and wreckers are just clearing that accident on I-495 at Shelter Rock Road. It's another wonderful commute on the LIE. Drive carefully and be patient. You will get home sometime this decade. This traffic report brought to you by Gins—"

His cell's ring interrupted the advertisement. Elliot killed the radio then pulled his phone from his pocket to answer it.

"Stabler."

"_Detective, this is Arthur Branch. You got a minute?"_

His folksy choice of words belied the command in his voice.

"Yes, sir," Elliot replied.

_"You know about Joseph Fontana, the detective who used to be with Manhattan Homicide?"_

Elliot allowed himself a grin.

_Yeah, I think I've heard of him...._

"Yes, sir," he said, "we've met."

_"Well, I want you and your partner to find out if Fontana knows Bureau Chief Beale, but I don't want you two telling him why you're asking or who you're asking about."_

Elliot crept forward three car lengths as he tried to figure out Branch's request.

"Sir," he asked, stalling for more time to think, "is this part of what we were checking on before?"

_"It may be," _Branch told him,_ "so not a word to anyone except me, Jack McCoy, and... well, I guess you'll have to say something to Fontana, but don't bring Andrew's name into it."_

Elliot looked up at headliner, both in exasperation and in a search for inspiration.

_We can't tell Fontana who we're asking about? Not even mention Beale's name? What are we supposed to do—play Charades? Pictionary?_

A horn blared from the lane to his left. A young girl, her blonde hair held back by a dark blue headband, held her hand up to her ear as though it were a cell phone then she frowned at Stabler. Behind her, an older woman glared at him. For a moment, he considered holding up his badge....

_... show them I'm not breaking the law, I'm enforcing it...._

... but the car next to him pulled ahead, taking its passengers' ire with it.

_"Stabler—you there?"_

"Yes, sir," he replied. "I'm in traffic. You want us to talk to Fontana about Bureau Chief Beale. Is tomorrow soon enough?"

_That gives me and Liv time to think of something...._

_"Yes," _Branch replied,_ "but I need to know ASAP. Don't take too long about it."_

With that, the DA ended the call. Elliot tossed his phone to the passenger seat and stepped on the gas as the cars before him began to move.

_I'll call Liv on the way in tomorrow... see what she thinks... until then, I'm off the clock....  
_


	19. The Thirteen Club: part one

A/N: Paraskevidekatriaphobia, the scientific term for fear of Friday the 13th

William Fowler, the Thirteen Club, and the Kickerbocker Hotel are all real.

Commissioner Arnie MacLaren is from the L&O episode "Publish or Perish"

"Cross my heart and hope to spit" - said by Theodore Cleaver on the TV show "Leave It To Beaver".

I'm not a doctor so the drug info in this chapter is from medical websites. All standard disclaimers apply.

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
Sixteenth Precinct  
13 August (Friday)

Don Cragen had started the day at a Bensonhurst pastry shop.

_Coffee, juice, a bear claw, and a chance meeting with Ed Wilson, Deputy Commissioner of Legal Matters... Beale arranged a round of golf with him and me... he was picking up some chocolate-covered cannolis for his secretary—birthday, I think...._

The chance meeting brought Don a choice piece of gossip.

_He told me not to ask him about the promotion list... I guess my protest that I wasn't going to seemed sincere... he then said Commissioner Richardson was holding the list so close to his chest that we could probably get his DNA from it... there won't be any leaks or false starst, not like when MacLaren was commissioner... Wilson also told me to bet on a short list—few promotions, no surprises... and he had the good grace to look sorry about it...._

Don had shrugged off the news.

_Legal Matters isn't involved in promotion decisions... all Wilson knows is Puzzle Palace scuttlebutt... I can get that by walking through the building... and so can Beale... if he thinks I'm still in the running, then I am—no matter what Wilson hints at... Beale may be—well, whatever he is, he's not stupid...._

After talking with Wilson, Don then bought two dozen doughnuts—twelve filled, six iced, three with sprinkles, three plain—for his people.

_Judith's slacked off on the muffin baking... understandable, given she's coping with Fontana and wedding plans... Tullia says she likes to bake, but she doesn't have the time or the kitchen equipment... I can't fix the first one... but kitchen stuff I got...._

When he arrived at work, Don crossed the empty squadroom and put the doughnut boxes by the coffee machine.

_Now, to make coffee... not to sway anyone, but because I can use a mug or three... I didn't sleep well last night... or the night before... working sex crimes means whatever is creating my nightmares has a lot of experience and bad memories to draw from...._

While the coffee was brewing, Don went into his office. He locked his weapon in a desk drawer and checked his messages.

_Greg Larson filling me in on the date rape he and Jason caught last night—perp's on his way to Central Booking... he wants someone to reinterview the victim... I'll send Judith since she's working solo for now... a reminder from Casey about needing Fin for trial prep this afternoon and Olivia on Monday... message about this afternoon's precinct meeting—bring my own coffee... but I'm seeing Olivet at one—I'll barely make it back in time... last up is a bad paraskevidekatriaphobia joke from Lee Kidman...._

He glanced at his desk calendar.

_Lee's right—it is Friday the Thirteenth... Couch and Fin have the on-call tonight... I should have lit an extra candle for them... at least it's not a full moon...._

Voices and footsteps coming from the squadroom told him that his people were arriving for their shift.

_Elliot and Couch... they've started carpooling from Queens... next, Judith—no Chester because he has today off... if I want some of that coffee, I'd better get out there...._

The three detectives each greeted him amiably them moved aside to give him first shot at the carafe.

_Rank has its privileges...._

In return, Don hung around with them while the rest of the shift trickled in.

_Olivia next, then Fin, then John and Donna... that case folder John's carrying has a 'Choi' label... I better remind him that cold cases don't have priority...._

As the detectives poured their morning beverages, Cragen informed them about Larson and Reinholdt's collar and Casey's trial prep message. Conversations turned from trivia to work as minds switched into work mode. Loudoun had just mentioned waiting on the financial and phone records for the Brown case when a clerk walked through the squadroom door with a stack of folders.

"Loudoun? Munch?" the clerk called out. "You wanting these?"

Voices quieted and eyebrows shot up as all attention turned to Loudoun as she signed for them.

"It's a gift," Donna said. "John, you want to run through the LUDs?"

Her question served to break up the knot around the coffee machine. As they headed to their desks, Judith matched Cragen's pace toward his office.

"Do you have a minute?" she asked. "I need to tell you something."

Don ushered her into his office, closing the door behind him then he listened as she described her chance meeting with First Deputy Commissioner Anthony Balzano the day before.

_An Italian proverb and a greeting to Fontana? That sounds tame coming from the man who offered to beat the crap out of me outside the courtroom after my O'Farrell testimony...._

He continued to listen while she told him about the Bronx DA's possible involvement.

_Martinez came here once... tried to browbeat my detectives... I can see him going after Fontana...._

But, when Judith mentioned how Andrew Beale also had a part in it, his pastry from breakfast began to claw its way up his esophagus. It took everything Don had to keep from retching while he promised to sound out Beale about the allegations. He then gave Judith the contact info for c, the date rape victim, and asked her to set up a follow-up interview.

As soon as Otten left his office, Don collapsed in his chair and began to shake.

_Can't lose it—not now... my door's open and everyone will see me... bad enough Fin knows... he said he'd keep quiet... trusting me to work it through with Olivet... and I still have to figure out today's session... what to tell her and how...._

Several deep breaths followed by an antacid and a gulp of coffee helped settle the cramps in his stomach. Don then wiped his hands on his handkerchief before looking thought the open office door.

_Okay... no one noticed... I got it together again... at least, for now...._

Out in the squadroom, Olivia was listening as Elliot told her about Arthur Branch's phone call the evening before.

_We both know how to discuss sensitive matters in the squadroom... to keep from attracting attention, remember the following: no sudden moves, no loud voices or variations in tone or volume... don't mention any one by name—ears always perk up when a familiar name is spoken... act boring... look boring... people assume you are boring... like now—I'm keeping my voice low... I'm holding a report out to Elliot like it's the object of our discussion... it's all misdirection... we look like we're discussing a case, but we're not.... _

"So, the guy who called you," she asked Elliot, "wants us to find out if some guy knows a third guy without telling him who the third guy is?"

Elliot nodded, his gaze focused on the printout Olivia had handed him.

"But," she continued, "wouldn't some guy know the third guy through work or maybe..."

She tipped her head toward Judith's desk, where the older woman finishing a phone call.

_The big problem with this is we can run out of pronouns and generic nouns... that and juggling them gets confusing...._

"Maybe not," Elliot replied as he handed her back the report. "Do you know what Special Litigation's bureau chief looks like?"

The question put Olivia off her stride.

"Never met that other guy," she admitted, "but our third guy has been on TV recently. Remember the news conference after that operation of yours? The third guy was front-and-center for that."

"That was before...um... some guy met... uh...."

Elliot picked up a pencil then set it down with its point indicating Judith's desk.

"... met her so I doubt it some guy bothered to notice. How do you want to handle this?"

Olivia allowed herself a smile, knowing it would irk her partner.

_So you're leaving the problem-solving to me? About time you figured out who had the brains between us...._

As her response, she called up the photo array program on her computer then spun the monitor to face Elliot. It took a moment, but he finally nodded.

"You want to show some guy a six-pack with the third guy's picture in it?"

"Got another idea?"

Elliot chuckled.

"I was thinking Charades. Does the third guy's last name have one syllable or two?"

Olivia sounded Beale's name silently.

_Beel... Bee-ahl... I don't hear much difference..._

Rather than choose, she killed the photo array program, wiping its template from her screen before anyone else spotted it.

"Tell you what," she told her partner, "I'll head over to uh... somewhere else and put this together. You find a way to get us to some guy's place without anyone noticing."

Elliot's grin served as his reply. Olivia got to her feet, but her exit was halted by the captain's voice.

"Elliot, Olivia—we got a possible child molestation at Nurse Goosie's daycare center."

Cragen crossed the distance from his office door to Stabler's desk to hand him the contact info.

"Nydia Barry called it in. She's the daycare's director."

Elliot took the paper and glanced at it before he confirmed receipt with a nod.

"I'll be out of reach between one and two this afternoon," Cragen continued, "then in a precinct meeting. You can interrupt that if you need to."

"In other words," Benson said, "please call and get you out of there."

Her quip got her a faint smile before Cragen turned to Otten.

"Judith, you reach Ms King yet?"

Both Elliot and Olivia took advantage of his shift in attention to hurry out of the squadroom. As soon as they were out of earshot, Olivia turned to her partner.

"How soon does Branch want us to do this?"

"ASAP," Elliot replied.

"He may have to wait," Olivia noted, "not that I want to be the one telling him that fact."

Elliot showed her the slip of paper with the contact info.

"We're heading to Battery Park," he told her. "Judith said Fontana's co-op overlooks Castle Clinton so we'll be in the neighborhood. If we make an extra stop, no one will notice."

Olivia grinned. "I know someone at the Oh-One who will lend us a desk and computer. I can do up the six-pack then we'll show it to Fontana. That should handle this wild goose chase without anyone being the wiser."

Elliot grinned back.

"And, with any luck, we'll also miss Munch's Friday the Thirteenth lecture."

Back in the squadroom, Cragen had gone back to his paperwork. Munch took advantage of the quiet by setting aside the LUDs he had been reading. He then looked around to see who else might be up for a distraction.

_Fin has the sports section open... doesn't matter—he'd ignore me even if I stripped naked and did pratfalls by his desk... Couch is checking his e-mail... Judith has a DD-5 on her computer screen—must be prep for that follow-up Cragen just asked about... my partner is paging through the Browns' credit reports... they're my audience...._

John cleared his throat.

_Let's see who's superstitious...._

"It's Friday the Thirteenth," he announced. "Anyone nervous?"

Loudoun looked up from her reading. When John caught her gaze, she quickly broke eye contact.

_That's one...._

Judith looked up just long enough to roll her eyes then she resumed her reading.

_Figured...._

Across the aisle, Fin's attention never wavered from his newspaper, but Couch's worried frown let John know he now had his audience.

"If so," he continued, "you probably should read up on Captain William Fowler, a famous resident of our fair city."

"Why? Did he make a call to the Browns right before the rape?"

John ignored his partner's snide question. He placed his elbows on the stack of LUDS and leaned closer to her.

"Back in 1881," he said, "Captain Fowler was musing on his life's successes, and how many times the number thirteen had been a part of those successes. He had survived thirteen Civil Way battles. His architectural firm had designed and built thirteen public buildings. He belonged to thirteen civic and social organizations and he had graduated P.S. Thirteen when he was thirteen years of age. Several big business deals also had closed on the thirteenth, all of which profited him."

John leaned back in his chair and swiveled it until he was facing Couch.

"In short, the number thirteen had done him only good in his life yet every one around him treated it as an object of fear and loathing, just as you guys reacted when you looked at today's calendar page and saw that big black 'One-three.'"

"Did not," Couch told him. "Besides, Fowler's only one example. He doesn't prove anything."

Fin scowled at his partner over the sports section he was reading. He muttered something about encouraging fools who talk too much, a comment Couch ignored.

"That is correct," John replied, "which is why Captain Fowler decided to create the ultimate proof that the superstitions surrounding the number thirteen were completely bogus. He invited twelve prominent New Yorkers to dinner in Room Thirteen at the Kickerbocker Hotel on Friday, January 13th, 1881, a day and place I'm sure you'll agree was less than propitious. In order to make the test completely authentic, he had his guests walk under a ladder, and he arranged for a pile of spilled salt at each of their place settings. Their silverware was crossed—"

"Why?" Couch asked.

"Crossed knives," John told him, "lead to cross words. Over the banquet table, Fowler had a banner hung with the famous Roman quotation_ Morituri Te Salutamus_ or 'We who are about to die salute you,' because everyone knew for a fact that a dinner party with thirteen attendees guaranteed that one of them would die within a year."

Munch peered at Couch, then Donna over his lenses.

"Although Fowler did his damnedest to tempt fate, neither he nor his guests suffered any bad luck during or after the party, and all of them were still very much alive twelve months later. The dinner became an annual affair and people clamored to attend, prompting Fowler to declare the gathering a formal club. The idea spread and other Thirteen Clubs were founded across the country, all dedicated to the debunking of superstitions about the number thirteen."

"Sounds like," Donna said, her gaze still focused on the Browns' financials, "they were more dedicated to fancy dinners with weird themes than anything else."

"Same here," Couch added. "Doesn't seem all that scientific to me."

John scowled at their disbelief then he swiveled his chair until he faced Otten.

"What about you?" he asked. "You think Fowler's Thirteen Club was an exercise in entertainment or scientific proof—"

Before Judith could look away from her reading, Loudoun rose from her chair and leaned over to tap the forgotten LUDs on Munch's desk.

"Thanks for the history lesson," she told him. "Now, how about some real detective work?"

John made sure his sigh echoed through the room.

_Philistines... I try to educate and I get this...._

He then handed Loudoun the topmost page of the phone records.

"Already did. Three days before the alleged rape, Carrie Brown got two calls from a Sherrie Almond in Upper Vailsburg, New Jersey. You might remember that Mrs. Brown's maiden name is Almond."

Loudoun glanced at the paper, but did not take it from Munch.

"Okay, so she talks to her sister. Why is that important?"

"Because there are two more calls between the two women on each of the next two days, with three calls on the day that Carrie claims her husband attacked her. The calls then stop."

John thrust the paper at Donna then peered at her over his lenses.

"See anything odd about that pattern?"

Donna took the phone record from his hand and read it over before replying.

"She should be reaching out to her family for support, comfort, help—but she isn't."

"Exactly," John confirmed. "We need to find out why. While we're in New Jersey...,"

He picked up the folder marked "Choi."

"... we can look up Freddie Lipski, who lives in Newark. On our way back, we can check up on Fred Waters by Rector Park, and J. Frederick Jepsen on Church Street, then we can see Fredo Marti, and Fred Burwell in the Lower East Side...."

Loudoun took the file from him.

"Just to make sure we get to Sherrie Almond first," she announced, "I'm driving."

Office of Dr. Elizabeth Olivet  
Manhattan, NY  
13 August

While Charlie drove him to his one o'clock session with Dr. Olivet, Don decided on his strategy.

_Mention the panic attacks, but don't say anything about their cause... pass them off as another PTS symptom—I checked and they are on the list... this way, I keep my word to Fin... I might even get something to help with them... if Liz prescribes it, I'll take it...._

Ten minutes after his arrival at her office, his strategy blew up in his face. Dr. Olivet listened while he described his meeting with Fin in his kitchen then she said, "Don, panic attacks aren't something I'd expect this long after your confrontation with Chief Sullivan."

Olivet lowered her pen and leaned forward to peer at him. Don spotted the concern in her expression.

_Oh-oh... I've misplayed this somehow...._

"There's something else going on in your life," Olivet told him, "something you're not telling me."

Her gentle voice urged him to explain, but Don fought the temptation to unburden himself to her.

_Damn right there is, but I can't say 'Remember letting yourself get raped to catch that doctor? That went so well for you, I'm going to try it...' I also can't sit here for the next forty minutes and watch Liz wonder what's up with me...._

Don glanced around the room. Nothing in the angular furnishings or the vases of flowers gave him a clue as to what to do. Across from him, Olivet's calm but unrelenting gaze showed that she planned to pursue the matter until he gave in.

_I could head for the door... use the precinct meeting as my excuse... except she's taking notes... Branch saw her evaluation of me... he may be getting weekly updates... and that means there's only one answer I can give...._

Don sat up straight as though at attention and said, "I can't. I've been ordered not to."

Liz blinked at him in disbelief.

"Someone ordered you not to tell me?"

"No, not you specifically. I can't talk to anyone about it."

She blinked once more then shook her head slightly as though amazed by the fix Don had gotten into.

"Can you go the hypothetical route?" she asked him. "Maybe tell me about someone with a problem similar to yours?"

Don considered the option.

_I want to tell someone... Tullia asks what's bugging me and I tell her it's work... Beale asks and I don't tell him it's the thought of spending Sunday with him—ball game, dinner—with me praying like hell that I'm wrong about him... it would be great to unload on Liz and get her opinion—but I can't disobey my orders... I'm not sure getting canned is worth this—unless Beale really is a predator... then I have to see it through... no one else can do what I'm doing... no else believes me...._

He shook his head.

Olivet stood up. Without explanation, she walked across the room to put her pad and pen by a vase of red gladiolus then she retook her seat and folded her hands in her lap.

"Okay," she said slowly, "no notes, no records. Just two friends and complete confidentiality. Change all the names if you have to, Don—but talk to me."

She leaned toward him and rested her elbows on her and smiled. The poise looked so friendly and comforting that Don's resolve wavered. Liz's smile broadened.

_Damn... she knows I'm about to give in...._

"I promise whatever you say won't leave this office," she told him as she traced an X over her heart. "Cross my heart and hope to spit."

He tried to stop it, but the childish vow brought a smile to Don's lips.

_You win... and I hope neither of us regrets this...._

"Okay," he said before drawing in a deep breath, "there's this captain who has a friend and this friend has been very helpful...."

Don told her everything, leaving out only Beale's name and anything that might identify him. He included his meeting with Arthur Branch and how the DA had checked out 'this friend' and found nothing suspicious. When he told about rigging his home with cameras, Liz winced. The nausea in her expression warned him that he was triggering painful memories for her.

When he had finished, Olivet sank back against the cushions on her chair. The hollow-eyed stare she fixed on his face warned Don that his situation had hit her hard.

_I'm so sorry, Liz... if you'd warned us ahead of time... or if I'd had the knowledge and experience back then that I have now... we could have caught that rapist some other way... at the very least, things would have been better, easier for you... both then and now...._

His regretful sigh mirrored one hissed by Liz.

"So," she said, "this captain—he has no proof, only his instincts?"

Don nodded.

"He has no proof. It's all gut..."

He tried a smile.

"... and he is eating antacids like they're candy."

She gave him a long, searching stare.

"Is he thinking about drinking?"

"Thinking?" Don repeated. "Yes, he is. Actually doing it? No."

Liz continued to stare at him.

"Don, is this captain thinking about setting a trap for his 'friend' using...."

Liz swallowed so hard, he thought she might vomit.

"... using himself as bait."

Her last words stammered from her mouth as her eyes widened.

_Oh, God—I'm scaring her...._

Don edged forward on the sofa, leaning forward in the hope it might ease her distress.

"He's only gathering evidence," he assured her. "If his friend tries to doctor his food or water, he'll have the proof on tape—actually, in a computer file. If that doesn't work, well—it's going to work."

"Is this captain sure?"

_Yeah, I know you thought you had everything under control, too...._

"If he was sure," he told her, "I'd wouldn't be having panic attacks and nightmares, would I?"

Liz twisted in her chair then she opened the drawer of the table next to her and took out a prescription pad.

"I may be able to help with the nightmares," she said as she wrote. "Do you have any history of drug allergies, liver disease, sleep apnea, COPD, depression, mental illness, or suicidal thoughts?"

He shook his head.

"Are you currently taking any antidepressants?"

He shook his head again. Liz tore the topmost sheet from the pad then handed it to him.

"That's for ramelteon. Take it as prescribed when you need a night's sleep. It should help."

He put the scrip into his pocket, but Olivet spoke before he could thank her.

"Don, can't you arrange for backup?" she asked. "Have someone with you in case your friend—no, I'm calling him what he is, a God-damned evil predator. What if he gets around all your safeguards? The thought of anyone, including you, handling something like this alone...."

Liz let the sentence train off, but Don knew what she was thinking.

_I'm handling this alone the way you did... and, because of that, you deserve an honest answer...._

"I don't have backup," he told her, "because the DA thinks there is no foundation to my fears. If I talk about this, I'm disobeying a direct order, which means I endanger the career and pension of whomever I tell. I won't do that to my people—not after the hell I put them through."

Don watched as Liz considered his answer.

_She's so pale... I knew this would bring up bad memories... but having her listen helps so much... I still might be wrong about Beale—but, if I'm not... if anything goes wrong, Liz will speak up... she's taking a long time to think...._

After a few more seconds of thought, Liz met his gaze.

"I don't like this, Don, but I guess I'll have to trust your good judgment and experience."

Don raised an eyebrow.

_So, good judgment is what I'm using? Boy, do I have you fooled...._

Rather than speak that thought aloud, he tried a smile.

"I'll be careful," he told her. "I promise."

Liz reached out to get her appointment book from the side table.

"I'm making time for you on Monday," she told him as she opened the book. "Eleven a.m. Whatever happens, I want you in here. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

Liz noticed that, as soon as he promised to show up on Monday, Don wasted no time on saying his farewells and leaving her office.

_I should be used to that from my patients... any time I get a strong man to admit a weakness, the drive to run away, to put distance between me and him, takes hold... Don needs time to process his admission... it's his job to protect the weak, the victims... now, he stands an excellent chance of needing that protection for himself... that's hard for anyone to face, but especially for a man like Don...._

She curled up in her chair, hugging her knees in an attempt to find comfort and security, not so much for herself—the memories and pain from her own attack had mostly been put to rest after multiple therapy sessions—but for her colleague.

_Of all people, why Don Cragen? Is this some sort of karma—all the victims he thinks he failed coming back on him? Is he really the only one who can stop this fiend—if so, why should he do it alone? Sleeping pills is hardly enough help for this... I need to do more...._

What 'more' meant had come to her while she spent so much time considering Don's explanation for tackling his predator alone.

_He's under orders... but I'm not... yes, confidentiality applies, but I know how to tiptoe along that fine line...._

Liz left her chair. Grabbing her appointment book, she went to her inner office and slid into her desk chair.

_I really shouldn't do this...._

She laid her appointment book down then pulled her Rolodex to her, opening it to the section marked 'M.'

_This is so unprofessional... but I can't just cross my fingers and hope Don is wrong... all it takes is one slip-up... one miscalculation... I know—Oh, God, how I know...._

She found the entry she wanted then she dialed its number. After four rings, a male voice answered.

"It's Elizabeth Olivet," she told the detective at the other end of the call. "Yes, I know it's been a long time...."


	20. The Thirteen Club: part two

17 Battery Place is a real place, but it's not a co-op, doesn't have an exclusive Italian club, and I've taken liberties with its architectural layout.

Fontana's reading habits are based on the L& O episodes "Paradigm" and "Heart of Darkness"

Backstrip—the covering of a book's spine. I'm assuming that Olivia's mother, who was an English professor, taught her daughter to handle books correctly.

The verse recited is from John Clare's "Description of a Thunder-Storm"

Calumet Harbor: a major Great Lakes port 12 miles south of Chicago

Stabler's partner before Benson came to SVU was named Alphonse (last name unknown.) I used it for Couch because I liked the coincidence.

'Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak..._'_ is a line from Wm. Cowper's ___The Task__, Book I (____The Sofa__)_. The second quote is from A. E. Housman's _Forth I Wander, Forth I Must_

Mast is the collective noun for acorns that fall to the ground in the forest

"Dillon and Troost"- perpetrators from the SVU episode "Design" and the Law & Order episode "Flaw"

There's a derogatory term used in this chapter. some curse words, and a favorable description of bondage.

Residence of Joseph Fontana  
17 Battery Place  
Manhattan, NY  
13 August

Stabler and Benson's possible child molestation was, as Elliot put it, "a real Fred and Tammy case. Hell, it almost closed itself." The comment had brought a grin to Olivia's face.

_Of course, the director and staff at Nurse Goosie's day care aren't grinning—no one likes being falsely accused, even by mistake... as a result, Martin and Beth Alcott now are banned from one of the few sick child care centers in the city, so they're not happy, either... all because Austin Alcott, poor thing, has 'severe perianal erosive dermatitis from diarrhea exasperated by a food allergy brought about during a switch to solid foods,' according to the emergency room doctor... the dermatitis caused huge welts on his anus and rear—no wonder his parents freaked...._

Next up was Arthur Branch's wild goose chase. Stabler and Benson had shown their shields and identified themselves at the building's security desk. In return, they had received a keycard that would send the elevator to Fontana's floor.

Olivia ran a hand along the dark wood paneling in the elevator's cage as they ascended.

_Nothing at all like my elevator... this whole building's like that... turn-of-the-century, built of carved stone with massive arches... marble floors, lots of wood and intricately painted plaster... lobby's vaulted ceiling is frescoed with scenes from Roman history... I liked Elliot's crack about it: 'A penthouse over the Sistine Chapel—Fontana must have pull with God....' _

Elliot broke into her thoughts.

"I keep thinking how, if I won the lottery, I'd quit and never work again. Then, I remember how antsy I get on vacations. I just can't get my head out of my cases, not even for a week. Maybe Fontana has the right idea by living like this and staying on the job."

He turned towards her.

"How about you?" he asked. "Would you quit?"

Olivia dropped her hand and shrugged.

_Good question... I can't see me doing anything else... but I can't see me doing this until I'm old, either...._

"I don't really know," she replied. "Maybe I'd take some time off then switch to something with regular hours."

Elliot turned back to face the front of the cage.

"Something more in line with Dave's work schedule?"

Olivia felt her face warm.

"Yeah," she said, "something like that."

She saw her partner look sideways at her. His crooked smile warned her of more teasing to come.

"Y'know," he said lightly, as though mentioning a bit of trivia, "Kathy approves of Dave. Said you two are good together."

The warmth spread to her ears just as the floor indicator chimed twice and flashed "37." Olivia turned to her partner.

"Could we discuss this sometime when we're not about to interview a—actually, I don't know what Fontana is, but we're still interviewing him."

"Sure," Elliot said as the door slid open. "Maybe tonight. You can bring Dave to McMullen's and—"

Olivia tucked the folder firmly under her arm then she left the elevator.

"No way am I letting the gang gang up on Dave," she told him over her shoulder, "and that's Fontana's door. How about knocking on it?"

Elliot's low chuckle merged with the sound of his knuckles on the sold wood. A male voice, muffled by the closed door, asked to see their IDs. After they both held theirs to the peephole, the door swung open.

_Wide foyer... kitchen on right, closet on left... someone placed a leather armchair by the closet, too close to see through the peephole—it's a barricade... anyone breaks down the door, he'll run right into it... the guy on the door is short, but built... chinos, blue dress shirt, Sig 228 holstered on his right...._

"My apologies," the man said. "We're checking everyone, even Detective Otten."

He waved them around the armchair.

"Detective Fontana just finished physical therapy. He should be right out."

As soon as they entered the living area, the man sat back down and resumed reading a magazine, paying them no further attention.

_Suits me... since I have the chance, I'm looking around... big place—duplex, judging from the stairs by the windows—they face west... looks like bedrooms and baths on my left... my place would fit in the living room & kitchen, so I'm guessing two thousand square feet... reddish wood floors, wide planks, an ivory wool rug by the windows... walls painted eggshell with nothing hung on them... kitchen's granite and brushed aluminum except for that brass espresso maker... I expected his place to look like a Vegas casino... this isn't gaudy, not at all...._

Olivia stepped around the corner of the kitchen.

_Fontana must not be big on furniture... he's got an ivory leather armchair that matches the one by the door... there's a reading lamp and a pole with hand grips by the chair—must be so Fontana can get up and down when sitting... he's got a flat-screen TV and sound system mounted on the wall... lots of record albums and a turntable... plenty of open space, not much in it... just the two chairs, end tables and a coffee table in cherry wood, and some brushed steels stools for the kitchen counter... not the sort of place I'd want to be brought for a evening's pleasure... feels more monastic than seductive... although that pole does look kind of kinky...._

While she was taking in the decor, Elliot had walked to the window by the stereo system. After peering out at Lady Liberty and Ellis Island, he turned around then jumped slightly.

"Hey, Liv," he called out. "Come look at this."

He strode back across the room, this time to face the wall opposite the sound system. Olivia stepped further into the room, clearing the corner so she could see what had attracted her partner's attention.

_Book shelves—and books.... floor to ceiling, the length of the wall...._

Elliot reached up and ran his finger along one of the shelves.

"Histories," he said, "Ancient Egypt, Greece and Rome...."

His hand dropped to the next shelf.

"Middle Ages, Renaissance... in English and Italian."

Elliot then lowered his voice.

"I didn't know Fontana could read."

Olivia chuckled politely as she joined him by the books, where a section of slender bindings further to her partner's right caught her eye.

_Giacomo Leopardi, Eugenio Montale, Salvatore Quasimodo—those are in Italian... but these, over here, are English Romantic poets... Shelly, Keats, Bryon, Wordsworth... and Southey, Frere, and Clare... the majors and the minors... _

She tucked the folder she was carrying under her arm then she pulled Clare's _The Village Minstrel, and Other Poems _from the shelf.

"Look at this," she said, the book held with its spine toward Elliot. "Judging by the wear on its backstrip and corners, it's not a collector's item—it's been read."

"And what's wrong with that?"

The question came from their left and was growled by Fontana. Both detectives turned toward him.

_God, he looks awful...._

Fontana and his walker stood at the end of the bookshelf. Olivia noted his white dress shirt worn loose over pale blue cotton pants and the tan leather slippers on his feet, but it was his injuries that prompted her shock.

_The left half of his face and neck—all yellow from faded bruises... and the way he's leaning into that walker shows how unsteady he is... looks like his left hand is wedged between terrycloth padding—Judith said, between the broken bones and the lost fingers, his grip is weak on that side.... _

"Mind if I sit down?"

Olivia stepped back, giving her partner room to move away from Fontana's path to the armchair. The glare the older man shot at them as he passed warned them not to offer any assistance.

As soon as Fontana had lowered himself into the chair and shoved his walker to one side, he pointed at the book in Olivia's hands.

"'Slow boiling up, on the horizon's brim,'" he recited.  
"Huge clouds arise, mountainous, dark and grim,  
Sluggish and slow upon the air they ride,  
As pitch-black ships o'er the blue ocean glide....'"

Fontana paused for a moment then said, "That's exactly how those clouds move. I used to watch them come in over Lake Michigan—used to watch the ships coming in to Calumet, too."

Olivia put the poetry volume back on the shelf then turned to face Fontana.

_Damn... who'd of thought? _

"My apologies," she told him. "My mother taught the Romantic poets at Hudson. I never knew a cop to take her course."

Her soft words took the frown from Fontana's face.

"It's all Sister Dominice's fault," he said. "When she taught us poetry at Saint Mike's, it made sense—at least to me. Her class was one of the few 'A's I ever got."

"And English poetry led to Italian poetry?" she asked.

"Made my mom happy, seeing me reading something besides the sports page and the comics."

Olivia saw his attention turn to her partner.

_I can tell from that smirk... Elliot's about to say something smart-ass...._

Fontana, however, beat Stabler to the draw.

"Yeah, I got ragged for it. Day I aced the final, Jimmy Orsetti called me a rhyming fag so I dragged his butt out back of the gym, and pounded him into the pavement."

Elliot's face lost its smirk. "I can see how that would shut him up."

"Damn straight," Fontana replied. "So, you two here to borrow a book?"

Olivia quickly glanced at Elliot.

_Branch dumped this on you... you get to explain it...._

Elliot narrowed his eyes, a sign that he got her message but did not like it. He then drew in a deep breath.

"No, we're here on business," he told Fontana. "We need to show you some photos."

"Why?"

Elliot gritted his teeth.

"We can't tell you. You also can't tell Judith we were here. Orders."

Fontana reached for the grab bar above him then pulled himself to the edge of his chair.

"Orders?" he growled. "What kind of orders make you bring me photos and don't tell me why? Why the hell is this a secret? Does this have anything to do with what Balzano and Francisco fucking Martinez did to me? Those rat bastards, they—"

Olivia stepped between Elliot and Fontana.

"There's been no mention of the First Dep or the Bronx DA," she assured him. "I'm certain these photos have nothing to do with your predicament."

Olivia then flashed her best "We're all stuck in this together" smile. Fontana glowered at her for a moment then he eased back in his chair.

"Fine. I'll keep quiet. It's not like I can get up and throw you out."

Wanting to move things along, Olivia opened the folder. Next to her, Elliot eased forward as she handed Fontana the first of the two photo arrays.

_Beale's DMV photo is on the second one... I cropped both it and the mug shots I also used so they all appear to have the same format and background...._

The older man took the array from her and looked it over.

"I doubt this is what you want," he said, "but my partner uses the top-middle photo all the time. Ed says the guy looks just like his high school algebra teacher. Man, Ed hates that guy."

"We'll make note of that," Elliot replied. "You know any one else?"

Fontana shook his head. "No. You got more of these?"

Olivia handed him the second sheet. Neither she nor Elliot glanced at each other nor did they let their blank expressions twitch.

_No hints... no nudges... just tell us you don't know any of them and we'll get back to the house in plenty of time for the shift meeting... and maybe this will put the Beale matter to rest once and for all...._

Fontana dropped the first array into his lap before taking the second from Olivia's hand. She watched as he scanned the first three photos then, to her amazement, he jerked back from the array and his eyes widened in recognition.

_What the hell?_

"You see someone you know?" Elliot asked.

"No one I know," Fontana replied. "Someone I ran into once."

"Which one is he?" she asked.

Fontana moved the array to his left hand, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, then he pointed to Andrew Beale's photo at the left side of the bottom row.

"This one," he told her. "I can't give you a name or an address, but I can tell you what he is."

Elliot stepped closer, his gaze focused on the sheet in Fontana's hand.

"What is he?" he said, his expression deliberately blank.

He's a pervert," Fontana snarled, "who likes his partners completely immobile and helpless. Sex is supposed to be about pleasure, which, in my opinion, does not include binding some unconscious guy up in chains then sodomizing him—I don't care how willing the guy in chains says he is."

Olivia saw her partner glance at her. The slack in his jaw was the only sign he had gone gape-mouthed with disbelief.

_Son of a bitch...._

Fontana broke into her shock.

"Is that what you're here for—so I can play Spot the Pervert?"

Olivia ignored the question by turning to face her partner.

_It's still your call...._

She conveyed that message with a raised eyebrow. Elliot frowned back at her.

_Yeah... I don't know where this is taking us, either...._

"Well?"

Fontana's impatient question drew their attention back to him.

"Honestly," Olivia replied, "we figured this for a wild goose chase."

"So," Elliot added, "you know the drill. We need location, date, circumstances, whatever you can give us...."

"Because you don't know what the brass is fishing for," Fontana finished his sentence for him. "You wanna grab a couple a barstools and push that table a little closer? This will take a while, and I gotta put my feet up."

Elliot fetched two barstools from the kitchen serving counter while Olivia dragged the table to where Fontana could prop his feet on it.

"Thanks," he said with a sigh. "It hurts to sit, and it hurts to stand, and it hurts to lay down. I'm supposed to take it easy until the fractures knit together, but I'm also supposed to move around so I don't get blood clots."

"Doesn't sound like much fun," Elliot told him as he and Olivia took a seat.

"No, pal—it ain't. Which one of you is taking notes?"

Olivia fished her pad and a pen from her jacket.

"Hand me your pen so I can sign this thing."

As soon as Fontana had marked and signed Beale's photo, he began his story.

"This was April, two years ago—the third weekend in the month. Place was the Crooked Oak Lodge in Barston, New Hampshire."

Olivia wrote the info down while Elliot looked thoughtful.

"I've heard of that place," he said. "Alphonse told me about it when I first joined SVU. It's an exclusive resort catering to the rich and famous."

"The uninhibited rich and famous," Fontana corrected him. "I had to promise not to drop names when I registered so I can't tell you about the clientèle but, trust me, I saw people you'd recognize instantly."

"You're not exactly famous," Elliot then asked. "How'd you get in?"

Olivia expected Fontana to hem and haw, but he answered bluntly.

"An acquaintance of mine called. She said she had booked a long weekend at the Crooked Oak, but her partner had been called away on business. She asked if I'd like to take his place. Of course, I said 'Yes.' I never turn down a change to try something new—in fact, if I like it, I might try it again."

Olivia saw Elliot shake his head over Fontana's comment.

_My partner's such a prude...._

Fontana also noticed Stabler's disapproval.

"You need to remember," he told Stabler, "I'm talking about me back then—me before Judith. I'm not interested in anyone but her now. Got it?"

Both detectives nodded, but only Olivia caught how Elliot rolled his eyes at the statement.

_Yeah, I know... can leopards really change their spots?_

"Anyway," Fontana continued, "I arranged for some time off and we drove up to Barston...."

Crooked Oak Lodge  
Barston, NH  
April 18th, 2005

Fontana's "acquaintance" had scheduled a spa treatment for the two of them that morning, but Fontana had begged off.

_Mud baths are not my cup of joe... pigs wallow in that stuff, not men.... _

Instead, he headed out for a walk around the grounds.

_Forecast today is sunny with a high of 49... bit cool for my tastes... at least I'm dressed for it... Loro Piana shirt under my favorite deerskin bomber jacket... Merino wool slacks and the ankle boots I had made for me during my last trip to Rome...._

Fontana left the main lodge behind him as he took a path leading into the woods.

_Trail signpost says 'Barns, Bunker, Bastille'... alliteration... 'Barns' sounds good... I'm not much for riding, but where there's horses, there's women... maybe I can convince one of them to ditch her horse for a different kind of ride...._

The air was brisk as Fontana strode along the path.

_Sycamore, maple, hemlock, oak..' __Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak'__... all of them budding... mast debris crunching under my boots—deer food... woods are probably full of them... wouldn't mind hunting these grounds... wonder if deer stands are included in the lodge's amenities?_

He continued his walk, musing on deer stands built for two, who he might like to share one with, and what positions would be most efficacious. When the path forked, he ignored the signpost before choosing the left-hand fork.

_When you don't really care where you're going, any path will do...._

A quarter mile, a half mile... the path ran through the woods. Fontana followed it, enjoying the solitude and the exercise.

_'When green buds hang in the elm like dust  
And sprinkle the lime like rain,  
Forth I wander, forth I must,  
And drink of life again'... I really should do this more often... a walk in the woods is good for the soul—as long as I'm wearing the right shoes...._

He followed the path until it took a sharp right turn and its surface changed from dirt to cobblestone.

_Huh?_

Fontana stopped so quickly, his boots slid in the last of the dirt. Drawing on skills he hadn't expected to use that weekend, he edged around the turn.

_A stone one-story building with an open iron gate... crenelated facade with pennants flying... maybe it's supposed to be the Bastille... although the stones are too irregular... look more like field stone that the cut stone used for the original __Bastille_ Saint-Antoine_...._

He approached the gate slowly, noting that the lanterns flanking the gate were modern.

_I'll bet the prisoners in the Bastille wished they had electric lights...._

The lamps illuminated a narrow entry that teed into a hall running the length of the building.

_Concrete floor and walls scored to look like worked stone... I guess the lodge couldn't afford a stone mason for the entire project... well, it's go in and see what's here or spend the rest of my life wondering what I might have missed...._

Fontana went into the hall then stopped to case the area.

_A guardroom complete with attendant... no, I'm just looking... four doors, two on each side of the entrance with an electric lantern mounted by each door... all doors open.... I'm hearing noise from my left—metal on metal... before I go check it out, I need to find out if this really is what I think it is...._

He peered in the room on his right.

_Yep—that's what I thought... I'm in a dungeon... and that's a rack...._

The device, a wooden frame containing three rollers and a ratchet with a long handle to turn the rollers, stood on four stout wood legs. Fontana eyeballed its height above the concrete floor.

_Crotch high... great, if you get off on that sort of thing... restraints should be rope, but they're soft fabric—feels like silk.... _

A brace of lanterns swayed from chains hung over the rack. Across the room was an armoire built of rough-sawn wood with cast iron hinges. Fontana eased it open then burst out laughing at its contents.

_Hand sanitizers... disinfecting wipes... towels and spray bottles of cleansers... the Spanish Inquisition was never this tidy...._

He spent a moment picturing two consenting adults finishing their fun on the rack then cleaning up afterward.

_The way people are supposed to at the gym—yeah, right... this place is probably ankle-deep in fluids... worse than a hot-sheet hotel on payday...._

A check of the room facing found a similar setup.

_Except with a pillory and a Catherine's Wheel... looks like the spikes on the wheel have been blunted... dead guests don't bring much repeat business...._

Fontana returned to the hall and weighed his choices.

_I might as well see what's going on down there... maybe I'll learn something...._

He headed down the hall and looked first into the right-hand room, taking a moment to sort out the scene.

_Steel hooks mounted on the ceiling and walls... the far wall holds straps, stirrups, slings, shackles, all sorts of restraints—leather, fabric, and metal, all sorted by size and type... must be the biggest collection of bondage equipment on the east coast...._

He then peered into the last of the four rooms.

_Make that the second biggest collection... this one is being used by two men... one Caucasian, early twenties, dark hair cut short... kid's naked and supine in a leather mesh sling hung from the ceiling... feet raised high in stirrups, wrists bound to the top of the sling... the other man is also Caucasian, mid-forties... short, pudgy, and naked, but he moves like he's used to authority...._

Fontana had tried bondage a few times.

_Very intense, very enjoyable—with the right partner... problem is, I don't trust most of the women I know enough to let them tie me up... but, with the right one—wow...._

He watched silently as the pudgy man checked the ankle restraints.

_Bondage is a dance of power... dominance paired with submission—except all the power lies with the submissive... that one calls the shots, says when to start, what's off limits, and when to stop... done right, dominance serves submission... but I'm not getting that vibe here... the pudgy guy isn't paying the young guy any attention—no role-play, no interaction... the young guy's just another piece of equipment...._

Fontana took a step back from the door.

_Men don't do it for me... watching men does even less...._

He turned to leave. At that moment, the pudgy man spoke.

"If you want to watch, then come in. I'll even let you have a turn when I'm done."

Fontana spun on his heel, keeping his gaze focused on the pudgy man's face.

_Don't want him getting any ideas about me...._

"Shouldn't you consult your partner first?" he asked. "Seems to me he oughta have a say in what gets done to him."

The pudgy man shook his head pityingly at Fontana then he walked to the top of the sling. Grabbing the bound man by the chin, he turned his head to face Fontana.

"This one uses autohypnosis," he replied. "I like them completely passive."

Residence of Joseph Fontana  
17 Battery Place  
Manhattan, NY  
13 August

"That's when I told him 'Thanks, but no thanks' and I got the hell out of there," Fontana said to Stabler and Benson. "The way that kid was staring at nothing made it more like necrophilia than fun."

Olivia swallowed bile, so sharp was her disgust at what she had heard.

_He's talking about the Sex Crimes Bureau Chief... how in hell did the DA's office miss this?_

Next to her, Elliot squirmed on his barstool_._

"You're certain the man in the sling had given consent?" he asked.

"Yes," Fontana replied. "No way Crooked Oaks' management would let guests stay if drugs or force were being used. A police raid or a lawsuit would put them out of business so they don't take any chances."

"Oh-kay."

The disbelief in Elliot's response made Fontana bristle.

"Stabler," he snarled, "you calling me a liar?"

He reached for the grab bar above him and pulled himself to his feet. The effort made him grimace with pain as he swayed against the arm of his chair.

"I know Judith thinks a lot of you guys, and you, Benson—you were a big help on the Dillon and Troost cases, but maybe you oughta leave now."

Elliot slid off his barstool. Olivia stayed put.

_We just heard a story about Andrew Beale... but, to Fontana, it's a story about him with some unknown pudgy guy in a secondary role... on top of his concern about the First Dep, he's got to be worried about what Judith will do if we repeat this to her... add his pain to that and no wonder he's being touchy...._

"Look, Joe," she said, deliberately using his first name, "we're not going to say a word to Judith about this."

"You don't have to," Fontana told her. "Judith knows everything I did before I met her."

_Sure, but you just relaxed a little... me saying that helped...._

"Now," he continued, "do you need anything else? I'm getting a delivery at four today. Judith says I don't have enough furniture."

Olivia glanced around the room, glad for the change of subject.

"What are you getting?" she asked.

"A sofa to match the chairs, more end tables, two dressers for the bedroom, and a rug for over there," he replied, nodding at the floor by the kitchen. "Lamps, too. Judith is bringing her dining room set with her—that and family photos and stuff. Place will look like a real home when she's finished."

The sappy smile that brightened his face made Olivia smile back at him.

_Good... now we can leave on a happier note...._

She glanced at her partner. Elliot nodded in approval of her tactics.

"My wife's looking forward to attending your and Judith's wedding," he told the older man.

Fontana's sappy smile grew until it ruffled his mustache.

"Yeah, it's gonna be great. Oh, hey—can you do me a favor?"

He pointed at Olivia. Unsure of what was coming, Olivia nodded in reply.

"You know those pearl earrings Judith wears? Can you find out if she has a necklace to match. I'm trying to come up with a wedding gift, and I don't know what she has already."

Olivia let out a sigh of relief. "Sure, I'd be happy to," she replied.

"That's great," Fontana repeated. "You don't know what a pain it's been—"

Before he could finish, Olivia stuck out her hand.

"We really appreciate everything you've done, Joe, but we have to be back in time for shift change. I'll get back to you about that necklace."

After Elliot rushed through his farewells, the two detectives left. As soon as they were in the elevator, Olivia slumped against the wall.

"Son of a bitch," she said, louder than necessary.

"You can say that again," Elliot replied.

The silence that followed lasted until they reached their parked car. Olivia spent the time trying to fit the pieces together.

_So Beale likes his sex partners passive and immobile... that almost supports those rumors about his subordinates—but there was no mention of sex with Beale in any of our interviews—consensual or otherwise... we specifically asked... so what made Branch point us in Fontana's direction? Was it his reputation or did more rumors about Beale surface—no, it can't be the rumors... if there had been any evidence, we'd have found it... that's what we do...._

Elliot's thoughts had followed similar paths, something Olivia realized from the question he asked as they pulled out of the parking garage.

"You think we missed something when we talked to Keith, and then Blais and Stephanos?"

"I don't know," she said. "If Fontana's right and Beale really does like his sex partners comatose, then maybe...."

Elliot gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened.

"You really believe Beale gets his jollies by helping his people move up in the world then rendering them helpless and raping them?"

"It's technically possible," Olivia replied. "Date rape drugs often cause short-term amnesia and, if Beale were careful, there wouldn't be physical signs of penetration, but...."

She let her sentence trail off.

_I'm finding it very hard to believe...._

They drove several blocks as Elliot mulled over the idea.

"More likely," he pointed out, "someone got wind of Beale's sex preferences and started those rumors—someone who wanted to ruin his reputation."

"So what ties Fontana into all this?" Olivia asked. "You think Branch suspects him of starting those rumors?"

Elliot blew out a long breath.

_He sounds like a pressure cooker letting off steam...._

"Damned if I know," he replied. "Let's hope Branch fills in some blanks when we report back to him."

"You want to call him now or after the shift meeting?"

"After. We skip the meeting, and Cragen will wonder why. I don't know about you, but I don't want Cap questioning me about anything until I know more about this."

Olivia sank back in her seat and nodded her agreement.

_I also don't want to be the one telling Cragen about his friend's sex practices... or if Beale targets his subordinates—if he really does... let's hope none of this gets out until after Monday... otherwise, Cragen's promotion is toast...._


	21. The Thirteen Club: part three

I swiped the "blows to the soul" line from the SVU episode "Runaway"

I've also put Cragen's house in the Sixty-Second Precinct.

The Council Fire Golf Club is in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

SVU Squadroom

13 August (Friday)

The detectives on Brewster's shift were beginning to arrive when Captain Cragen called Couch into his office. No one took any notice of the request as Couch followed Cragen from the squadroom.

_Sure beats being stared at... hearing comments pitched too low for the captain to hear, but loud enough for me... 'Suck-up' being one of the kinder ones... I'm glad things are getting back to normal around here...._

Cragen closed the door behind them before heading for his desk. There, he turned to face his detective.

"Couch," Cragen said, "I ran into Sergeant Valeri downstairs. He tells me you blew off a request to assist with a project of his."

Couch gaped at him.

_Project of his? Hellavu way to say I won't help him demonize people...._

"I did not ignore Sergeant Valeri," Couch explained. "He told me the precinct is being spied on by towelheads—his word, not mine. He asked me to verify it, but all the questions and complaints I heard were perfectly reasonable ones. I'm not going to suspect people just because our desk sergeant is a bigo—"

He cut short the last word too late. Cragen's eyes went wide at Couch's slam against the desk sergeant.

_When he does that, he looks just like a box turtle I had back in Houston... right before he'd bite me...._

Couch braced himself for the obligatory "Respect for superior officers" lecture. To his surprise, Cragen suggested he take a seat then the captain settled himself on the corner of his desk.

"You didn't serve in the military, did you?" he asked.

_I got that question last night,too... must be the theme of the day...._

"No, sir," Couch replied. "I didn't."

The captain folded his hand before him. His gaze slid away from Couch for a moment, long enough to the younger man to wonder what was coming.

"One of the tactics used by the Viet Cong," Cragen explained, "was to have civilians or VC posing as civilians conduct legitimate business at American bases and outposts. It might be delivery of local produce, laundry services, sale of drugs or prostitution—whatever gave them a reason to get close enough to us to observe our operations and overhear information. Anything they learned about troop movements, logistics, equipment—no matter how unimportant— would be pooled with other reports until the VC had a clear picture of our strengths, our weaknesses, and our plans. I know this from my own experience, and from talking with others who served in 'Nam. Sergeant Valeri knows this from his serving in Desert Storm—same stories, same tactics."

He paused to peer down at Couch as though judging his reaction.

_Sounds like the captain is taking Valeri's side in this...._

"You're saying this is what's happening?" Couch asked. "Those people coming in are actually terrorist sympathizers?"

Cragen shook his head.

"I'm saying 'Don't throw away a possibility because its source is narrow-minded or has an axe to grind.' You don't want to be the one who missed a chance to stop a terrorist attack. It's a sure way to end your career."

The captain paused for Couch's reaction, but the younger man was too stunned to fake a chuckle. When the captain saw his joke had fallen flat, he changed the subject.

"Your personal experience with Muslims and others from the Mideast has been mostly positive, right?"

Couch nodded, although the change in topic made him wonder where Cragen was heading.

"They're people, sir," he replied. "The majority of them just want to live their lives as they see fit."

"Yes, I know," Cragen told him, "the same as the majority of all immigrants. Most find ways to make their cultures and beliefs fit with our laws and freedoms; they assimilate and become citizens. But, there's always a few who can't or won't adjust, or whose idea of a better life is a violent, illegal one. From them, we get the Mafia, the Russian mob, the South and Central American, and the Caribbean drug gangs, and now, Islamic terrorists, and men who would kill their own relatives to serve a false sense of honor."

Couch nodded again, this time because the reference to a recent case made him realize what his captain was driving at.

"You're worried," he replied, "that I'm letting my experiences color my judgment. You think I assume all Muslims are like Ahmad Eshan."

_But Ahmad was trying to fit in... he should get the benefit of the doubt... no way would I give a pass to his brother Nurzai—how could I? He was taking his niece back to Afghanistan so his tribe could gang-rape her to restore his family's honor... practices like that should have died out a long time ago... they have no place in this century...._

Couch straightened in his chair.

"Captain, there's no way to justify gang-rape, murder, or terrorism, but I didn't see anything like that in the people who came in to ask Valeri for information and help."

Cragen slid from his perch on his desk then walked around it to his chair.

"That's why I'm going to report Valeri's suspicions to Intelligence—"

Couch sat up in his chair.

_But I didn't see anything to support that...._

Cragen raised a hand to forestall his objections.

"—and I'll pass along your assessment. You are our precinct liaison, so they'll want your take on the situation. If there's any other intel about precinct houses being scoped out, they'll proceed with it. Sound good to you?"

Couch nodded again.

"Yes, sir. It does. I probably should have suggested it to Sergeant Valeri, but I didn't didn't see any need."

A wistful frown sagged Cragen's face.

"There's a lot of people who wish they could go back in time so they could see the need. Maybe those two ugly buildings would still be standing."

Couch jerked back in his chair.

_Ugly? _

"New Yorkers don't like to remember it now," Cragen told him, "but, before they came down, the Twin Towers were considered a blight on Manhattan's skyline. Now, everyone mourns their loss. There's a lesson there..."

Cragen glanced out at the squadroom.

"... but it's time for the shift meeting. We'll have to ponder it another time."

Outside the Sixteenth Precinct

13 August

When Don Cragen left the squadroom, he took the stairs to the main floor.

_The shift meeting went well...._

Benson, who came in with her partner just as Cragen was calling everyone together, had run through the current cases, calling for updates from the primary detectives as needed Otten reported that Brittney King had confirmed the details of her attack in the follow-up interview, a fact that made Reinhardt and Larsen happy. Loudoun reported on her and Munch's trip to see Sherrie Almond, the sister-in-law of Carrie Brown.

"Sherrie refused to talk to us," Donna told the group. "She said we needed to clear everything through her attorney. Her downstairs neighbor told us how Almond was 'hooting and hollering something fierce' late in the evening last Saturday. She also said Almond had a moving company rep come by yesterday. Judging from the noise, the possibility of her leaving the area, and the timing of her phone calls to Brown, we're kicking this over to Novak to have her get finanicals, Almond's LUDs, and a meeting with Almond and her lawyer."

"What do you think is going on," Brewster asked.

"Silly as it sounds, I'm leaning toward Almond winning the lottery," Donna replied.

_Everyone laughed, but Loudoun had support for her conclusion...._

"Saturday night is when the numbers get announced. We checked New York and New Jersey and there's no winnings listed in her or her sister's name, but there's plenty of other states. I'm betting—"

She ignored the round of snickers her choice of words started.

"I'm betting Almond won something in another state. We'll know from her LUDs if she got a call Saturday night from relatives telling her good news. In the meantime, we'll wait for Novak get things moving, and we'll see if Carrie Brown did any traveling with her sister recently."

Don pushed open the stairway door to enter the precinct lobby.

_I had chuckled, too... Loudoun's idea is a big leap... but asking Carrie Brown if she recently made a trip out of state and if she bought some lottery tickets while there won't be the oddest questions ever asked of a victim.... a sudden windfall might make a women decide to dump her husband violently and permanently so she doesn't have to share... next up was Munch and his seventeen possibilities for the Choi murder...._

"Nothing popped on the five we checked today," Munch had told the unit.

_That's all John told us... by "popped", I'm guessing he meant no gut feelings from any of them—he and Donna haven't had enough time to do a real investigation into their whereabouts eleven years ago—wait, that might not be true... John has been taking that folder home with him.... wouldn't put it past him to be spending his free time on research... I can't blame him, but it's not healthy to obsess over cold cases... just because he and Judith caught a big break with those other ones, there's no guarantee this one will close...._

A uniform by the rear entrance spotted Cragen's approach and opened the door for him. Don made sure to thank him as he left.

_Never take the trappings and privileges of rank for granted... you never know who might outrank you in the future... last to report was Elliot... his close topped Loudoun's report... severe diaper rash mistaken for abuse... it happens and it can get messy—no diaper pun intended... at least no one was charged before the real cause was found...._

He turned the corner into the precinct lot where his car was parked then he slid to an abrupt halt.

_John... slouching against my car like a street tough watching the world go by...._

Munch gave no sign he had noticed his captain's exit of the building.

_Nothing out of the ordinary... same black suit, dark shirt, skinny tie... he's staring into space with the same scowl I've been seeing ever since I tried to apologize...._

Don drew in a deep breath and took a step towards his car.

_Might as well get this over with...._

Just then, his cell phone rang. Don slid it from his pocket and checked the caller ID.

_Beale...._

He drew in another deep breath.

_He is my friend... he is my friend...._

To Don's relief, the call was a short one; Andrew wanted only to confirm a time for Saturday morning so he could drop off some of the food and supplies for Sunday's meal. Don told him to come by around eighty-thirty.

_Tullia will be at my place by then... we've got a picnic planned... she can act as chaperone—not that I'm telling either of them that...._

He put the phone back into his pocket and glanced toward his car and Munch.

_So now John's looking my way... staring at me is more like it... I'm close enough for him to have heard what I said... why would a conversation about groceries make him stare?_

Don walked over to his Buick. At his approach, Munch planted his feet and straightened up. His lips were pressed back against his teeth, a sign of extreme agitation, and his wary gaze never left Don's face. Certain that his detective was about to blow, Don greeted him by his first name.

_A gentle word turns away wrath... I hope...._

Munch kept his gaze fixed on Don's face.

"Why," he asked, "are you afraid of Andrew Beale?"

Don rocked back on his heels at the question.

_Don't look scared... look surprised—angry... I've fooled everyone else... I can fool John...._

"Andrew is my friend," he said, pleased with how strong his voice sounded. "Why would you say something like that?"

He met Munch's gaze with all the steel he could muster. Munch did not waver.

"Because," he replied, "when you looked at your phone, you went pale. Because you then braced yourself as if answering it took all the courage you had. Because..."

Munch peered even more deeply at Don.

"Because I got a call from Doctor Elizabeth Olivet this afternoon. She said my CO was in trouble and needed my help. She didn't tell me what kind of trouble you were in...."

Don glanced around the parking lot. A mechanic at the far end was checking under the hood of a blue Taurus, and several people were in the process of entering their own cars to head home. No one was paying him and Munch any attention.

While he checked their surroundings, Don ran through his options.

_Liz called John? She must really be afraid for me... but I know John's situation—I should... I used it against him when he and Judith fought in the squadroom... he can't afford to a rip... he needs every paycheck...._

He met Munch's still steady gaze, and realized his hesitation had confirmed the detective's suspicion.

_Doesn't matter... I'll tell John I'm only using Beale to get my oak leaves... he already thinks I'm hellbent on getting promoted by any means possible—he'll buy it... no need to jam him up for my benefit...._

Before Don could start lying, Munch spoke up.

"Part of me is glad you're scared. Part of me wants to see you twist slowly in the wind, feeling as helpless as I felt when you threatened to toss me to the rats. That part is ecstatic at the thought of something horrible happening to you, and you getting exactly what you deserve. That's why I told Olivet to find someone who cares before hanging up on her."

The cold, hate-filled stare and the savage words that too closely matched his fears shocked Don. He blinked at his detective, too stunned to find a reply. Munch glared at Don a moment longer then, without warning, his anger drained away, leaving him slack-jawed with a haunted look that his dark lenses could not hide. Don held his breath, unsure what was coming at him next.

Two heartbeats later, John drew in a long, shuddering breath then he said, "The problem with Loudoun's driving is its predictability—no panic stops, no power skids, no need to brace for sudden impact. It gave me time to think about the blows to the soul that come from revenge, and the damage they were doing to me. So, I called Olivet back and told her I'd talk to you."

He waved his hand as though to indicate Don's approach and phone call.

"I did not expect to find you afraid of our bureau chief. Want to tell me about it?"

Don eyed him warily.

_I think he means it... I still can't accept... but how do I turn down help that cost John so much to offer? Maybe, if I warn him... let him know what might happen... give him the chance to back off...._

"John, I have to tell you—it's messy. You could lose your shield."

Munch jerked back at that news.

"Well," he drawled, "since the last time you used that threat on me, I've picked up a rich friend. I'm sure he'll float me a loan or three if I need them."

The answer made no sense, but John's attempt at a smile eased Don's fears.

"You need to be anywhere?" he asked.

John glanced at his watch.

"Harrison Avenue in Williamsburg by 6:30."

Don gestured toward the passenger door of his car.

"I'll give you a lift."

Once the two men were in the car, Don did not drive east to the Williamsburg Bridge. Instead, he drove a circuitous route to a public parking garage near Penn Station, where he backed into a space on the top of the garage.

_I'm sure John will appreciate the precautions I'm taking...._

Don then told John the entire story, starting with Beale's request for a dinner at Breslau's after Richardson's investigation had cleared him through his most recent session with Dr. Olivet. He also warned that Branch had forbid him from talking about the matter.

_If this doesn't scare John off, nothing will...._

To Don's surprise, John's reaction was to fire a series of questions at him, subjects ranging from Arthur's Branch's exact words when telling Don to drop the matter to the placement of the cameras in his home. Don responded to each question, uncertain as to the thrust of some of the queries, but sure that, if there was a weakness in his plan, John would scent it out.

Finally, after John had run out of questions, he leaned back against the passenger door and stared at Don.

"I never would have believed this of our esteemed bureau chief, but now that you've laid it out, yeah—I can see it.

"You can?"

John peered at his boss over his lenses.

"Of course, according to several of my ex-wives and partners, my photo illustrates the dictionary definition of 'paranoid.'"

Don glanced at the car's headliner in a show of exasperation.

"Thanks, John. I feel so much better now."

"Don't. You'll get sloppy. It's better you stay on edge. Now, what are you needing from me? You want me hiding in a closet in case Beale actually does move on you?"

Munch's blunt words sent a shudder down Don's spine.

_What I want is for nothing to happen... I overeat, maybe watch another game on TV with Beale then he goes home... I can't take John out of rotation—I'm already down two detectives on Sunday—Judith's off and Chester's still on desk duty...._

He shook his head in reply.

"If nothing happens at my place and all hell breaks loose elsewhere, I won't be able to justify your absence."

John raised his hand to his face then faked a cough.

"I could get sick during the second shift as an excuse to head to your place."

Don shook his head again.

_Right now, I can look Branch in the eye and lie about not telling anyone... I can't do that if Beale finds John hiding in my house—or worse, if John does have to arrest him...._

"Let's try this," Don suggested, "you call me at regular intervals. If I don't answer, you can send in the cavalry."

John tipped his head and gave him a pitying frown.

"Regular intervals establish a pattern," he told Don. "If Beale realizes you're getting update calls every—say every forty-five minutes, he can time things accordingly. Irregular intervals are better."

After a few minutes of dickering, they settled on calls every forty or so minutes.

_Any more frequent and it might force Beale to abort... I want him caught, not stopped... any less frequent and... and let's not think about it...._

"Now," John said, "we need to pick out a secret word."

Don let out a nervous chuckle.

"Do I get a decoder ring, too?"

"Right," John groused, "make fun of my precautions. Suppose Beale has you tied up when I call. How will you convey that info to me when he holds your phone to your face and orders you to answer?"

Don's stomach knotted. He leaned forward against the steering wheel to ease the pain.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Don replied. "Funny how I can handle graphic details until it's me they're describing."

"Sorry, Don. I don't mean to be flippant. It's a nervous habit."

John spoke softly. The concern in his expression told Don he meant it.

"I should know that about you by now."

"Yes, you should. Now, we need a word to signal you're safe. It should be a word you'll remember, one that won't sound out of place to anyone listening."

Don mentally pictured the squadroom as he ran through past calls he had gotten while off-duty.

"How about 'locker'?" he asked.

John nodded his assent. "Short, not likely to be part of a call about a case, but not totally out of place. I like it. 'Locker' it is. If you say it, then I send in the troops. Can you think of anything else?"

Don shook his head. "No. Can you?"

John started ticking items off on his fingers. "A secured power supply to your cameras and computer in case Con Ed decides to hiccup. A RMP or two from the Six-Two posted in your area that evening for faster response. A feed from your cameras to my desk so I can monitor events for you—"

Don interrupted him. "How would you explain that if you got caught watching?"

"I'll tell everyone I tapped into the CIA's satellite feed then offer to show them what they look like in the shower. That should shut them up."

John then pointed at the dashboard clock.

"Hate to break up a fun time, but we need to get moving if I'm going to be on time."

Don put his hand on the ignition key then paused to turn toward his detective.

"John," he said, "I really—"

Munch held up both hands to ward off Don's words.

"Don't. Seriously, don't. Wait until nothing happens then thank me. I'll happily take the credit for your boring Sunday evening."

Don nodded as he started his car.

_From your mouth to God's ear, John... that's all I ask...._

Office of Jack McCoy, EADA

One Hogan Place

13 August

Jack McCoy was at his desk, its surface covered legal motions, notes, and folders. His attention, however, was on his motorcycle gear.

_I'd rather be riding than prepping for Bilinski's trial... try and think about the packed streets and bridges... forget the great weather... the sun and dry pavement will still be there in two hours... the traffic won't be...._

The ring of his desk phone was a welcome interruption. Jack answered it with a crisp "McCoy."

"_This is Detective Olivia Benson, Manhattan SVU. Arthur Branch said to call you if we couldn't reach him."_

Jack leaned back in his chair.

_He did? Oh, yes—back when we checked out Cragen's suspicion about Andrew... why is this still active?_

"I remember. Did something new turn up?"

"_Yes, sir. We found out that Fontana did cross paths with the bureau chief. However, he doesn't know who he is or where he works or lives."_

Jack frowned at her news.

"Why in hell," he asked, "would you question Fontana about that?"

There was a long pause from Benson's end of the call. Jack thought he heard her muffled voice talking to someone else before she answered his question.

"_Because the District Attorney asked us to find out if Fontana knew the bureau chief without mentioned Beale's name to him. We showed Fontana a photo array that included the bureau chief, and he picked out Beale as someone he had seen at the Crooked Oak Lodge two years ago. That's where Fontana witnessed Beale preparing to have consensual sex with a bound and semi-conscious young man."_

The Crooked Oak Lodge rang a bell. Jack remembered how Adam Schiff once had turned down a campaign contribution from one of its owners. It was the only part of Benson's reply that made sense. He growled at his phone receiver before picking up his pen and grabbing a pad of note paper.

"I wasn't aware the DA had asked you to do that," he told Benson. "Give me the details again."

He wrote them down as Benson recited them. He then assured her that he would pass them on to Branch as soon as possible.

"You and your partner will keep this under your hats, so to speak—right, Detective?"

"_Yes, sir," _she replied.

"Good," McCoy told her before hanging up.

Jack then called Branch's personal cell phone only to hear the sonorous tones of his boss' voicemail recording. He left a message summarizing Benson's info with a request for Branch to call him back.

_If for no other reason than to tell me why you're still pursuing this... oh, and why you dragged Fontana into it... I'm very happy to have him out of my life... and, just to make certain he stays out, I should see if I can get his name removed from the jury pool...._

By nine p.m., Jack had traded his office for his favorite bar. The Yankees were playing the Orioles on the TV screen nearest him so he sat at the bar and split his attention between the game, the plate of food before him, and the beer in his hand.

The game was in its eighth inning when Arthur Branch slid onto the barstool next to Jack. The DA was wearing slacks and a golf shirt with the feather logo of the Council Fire Golf Club, a sign that he had been home before tracking down his EADA.

"You're a creature of habit, Jack," he said in greeting. "What's the soup tonight?"

"Manhattan clam chowder," Jack replied, "a holdover from the unlamented days of abstaining from meat on Fridays."

He then gestured toward the plate before him. It held a crumpled napkin, some bread crumbs, a limp onion ring, and a leaf of curly endive used as a garnish.

"I had a bacon cheeseburger."

"Good choice," Arthur told him, "if you want to break the dietary rules of all the major religions."

"Suits me. Are you here about my message?"

Arthur waved over the bartender and ordered a Booker's and water. Jack pointed at his almost empty pilsner glass. After their drinks arrived, Arthur raised his bourbon.

"Confusion to defense attorneys," he said as a salute. "Now, tell me exactly what Detective Benson told you."

Jack repeated the detective's words then asked, "Did you send them to see if Fontana knows Beale."

Arthur sipped his bourbon.

"I did. I suppose you'd like to know why."

"I would."

The indulgent smile Branch had as he began to speak warned Jack that a bit of folksy wisdom was coming his way.

_Okay, I'm braced and ready...._

"I've found," the DA said, " that all men will do small favors for a friend, but few will risk their lives or careers for that same friend. Andrew doesn't strike me as one of those few."

Arthur sipped his drink.

"So," he said, "why would he risk my displeasure by helping Francisco dump on a homicide detective whom Andrew can't tell from Adam? Don't tell me it's for friendship; Andrew is too political an animal for that."

Jack gazed into his beer, but the rising bubbles failed to form an answer to Branch's question.

"I don't know," he admitted.

"Neither do I. I was hoping Fontana would give me a reason for Andrew to hate him—maybe he caught Andrew cheating at golf or welshing on a bar bet. I didn't expect this."

The two men turned their attention to the television at the end of the bar.

_Not because we're interested in a Yankee win... it's a distraction from a problem neither of us wants to face..._

Halfway through his beer, Jack decided to get it over with.

_It's that or have this nag at me all weekend...._

Jack set his glass down hard enough to attract his boss' attention.

"Arthur," he asked, "are you trying to tie Cragen's suspicions about Andrew to what Fontana said he saw?"

Branch's sour frown warned him that Arthur was as unhappy about the idea as Jack was.

"I have to," the DA replied. "I'd be derelict in my duty if I ignored the possibility. However, consensual homosexual bondage is not illegal—disgusting, perhaps, but not illegal."

"So you don't think," Jack said, pressing the matter, "that Andrew might have done what Cragen suspects he did to Marc and his other reports?"

Arthur shook his head. "A story told by a disgraced detective and the gut feeling of a shell-shocked captain don't turn Andrew into a sexual predator—unless you see a way to make it work."

Jack finished his beer in a swallow. "I can't. As far as I'm concerned, Andrew's in the clear. Can you live with knowing Andrew likes them male and tied up?"

Arthur's mouth puckered as though the bartender had dropped a sour persimmon in his bourbon.

"The law says I can't discriminate based on what one consenting adult does to another consenting adult in the privacy of their bedroom. Doesn't matter what I think about it, I have to choke it down."

Jack stifled a chuckle at the DA's red state attitude.

"So," he said to close out the matter, "until some new and very solid evidence shows up, we forget the rumor that Andrew is a predator who makes his people pay for their promotions—right?"

Branch's gaze shifted ever so quickly from Jack's face before he nodded.

_Oh-oh... that's not his conservative mindset getting in the way... he knows something he's not telling me...._

Jack twisted on his barstool and rested his arm by his beer. The move brought him close enough to keep from being overheard.

"Arthur," he asked, "what am I missing?

The DA checked those around them. Seeing that all were intent on the final inning of the ball game, Branch tipped his head closer to McCoy's face.

"Captain Cragen didn't say that Andrew was stalking only his own his people. Cragen thinks he's stalking him, too."

Jack reared back, putting distance between himself and that notion.

"Arthur! Don't tell me you believe that?"

The DA frowned, shrugged, and took a swig of his drink.

_The first is anger at me raising my voice... the second tells me he doesn't know whether to believe it or not... the third is to wash the taste of uncertainty out of his mouth...._

As soon as the bourbon had made its way to Branch's gullet, he addressed McCoy.

"I don't know, and that's the good Lord's honest truth. Cragen knows his stuff, but his own detectives proved him wrong. Fontana's story lends Cragen a shred of credence but, like you said earlier, consider the source."

Jack relaxed.

_I'll take 'I don't know' over 'He's a pervert—let's lynch him'... the very idea of Andrew stalking Cragen—it's beyond ridiculous..._

"So, what are you planning to do?" he asked his boss.

Branch's sour grimace deepened.

"Sit and wait," he replied. "Trust the overwhelming probability that Andrew isn't twisted enough to try anything, and that Cragen is savvy enough to stop him if he really is that sick. The NYPD hands out its promotions on Monday. One way or another, we'll know by then."


	22. Three am Thoughts

Vicks _NyQuil_® is mentioned in the story (to keep me on the lawful side of the trademark police)

Horse: basketball game played with one basket and suitable for driveways

¶ - the symbol for a paragraph

This chapter contains curse words, and clinical (not graphic) descriptions of the results of anal rape. If you don't want to read the descriptions, skip the section labeled "Nick's Hot Dog Stand: 14 August." You can pick up the story at the next section without losing too much.

Residence of Elliot Stabler

14 August (Saturday)

The clock on the nightstand read "3:18" when Elliot awoke. He lay quiet, listening to find out what had broken into his sleep.

_Water running through the building's pipes... a distant car horn... that damn wind chime from upstairs... no footsteps, no sounds of burglars going through my things, no gunshots or screaming... might as well roll over and go back to sleep...._

Which he tried, only to learn that it wasn't a noise that woke him. Bits and pieces of the day's visit to Fontana and the subsequent call to EADA McCoy roiled through Elliot's head, preventing him from resuming his slumbers.

_Never heard back from McCoy... never heard from Branch, either... dicks, both of them... Liv said McCoy didn't even know we went to see Fontana—shows how much any of this really matters...._

Elliot rolled onto his back, hoping that position might lull him back to sleep, but his brain kept churning.

_Beale's into kinky sex... think if Cap knows that? I don't know what I'd do if I found out someone I work with—or a friend—did stuff like that... 'course, we all wonder about Munch... from what he told me at McMullen's, if he'd try sex on a ski lift, he'd probably try it anywhere...._

Elliot stared up at his ceiling for a while as he ran through the possibilities available to two people on a narrow, swinging bench dozens of feet above a snowy hill.

_Those things don't have seat belts—how in hell would you keep from falling off? Even hand jobs would be risky... one badly timed jerk and you're splat on the ground, your package hanging out for everyone to see...._

Elliot rolled over again.

_Damn, I'd rather be asleep... maybe some milk... it's too late for a swig of NyQuil... I could go running... been a while since I've done that... Dickie said I'm getting old and fat... right before I beat him at Horse after dinner yesterday...._

He tried getting Beale out of his head by remembering Thursday evening with his family: Kathy's fried chicken and three-bean salad with cherry pie, showing his son who's still boss of the hoop then taking on both Dickie and Lizzie in two-on-one, a game he lost with more good humor than points. His thoughts, however, went directly to the bureau chief.

_Fontana says Beale likes them semi-conscious and tied up... put that with the rumor Branch heard about Beale stalking his male subordinates, wooing them with promotions then demanding sex from them in payment—why am I thinking about this? _

Elliot tried lying on his side, his pillow scrunched up under his head.

_Liv and I proved it wasn't true... we called Blais in D.C., and spoke to Keith and Stephanos in person... We know Keith, worked with him on cases and trials... if he were lying about sex—consensual or forced—with his former boss, we'd have spotted it... no harassment, no threats, no sex as payment for their new jobs—all three men said so... so did Newman's mother and Jerry confirmed it—Marc Newman killed himself over a lost love, not shame... except he didn't leave a note, so we can't know for certain it wasn't disgust and shame...._

The uncertainty echoed through his thoughts.

_Liv's right... date-rape drugs knock a victim out and also keep her—or him—from remembering... like that case Fin and Couch have—their vic thinks she had sex, but can't tell if she drank too much and blacked out or if she was drugged... she reported it too late to run tests... same with Keith, Blais, and Stephanos—by the time the rumors surfaced, it was months too late to test them for GHB or roofies...._

Elliot sat bolt upright in his bed.

_But Marc Newman was tested for drugs... the M.E. gets all suicides and a tox screen is part of the standard autopsy... if Newman was given Rohypnol within seventy-two hours before his death, it should show up—for GHB, it's twelve hours... I'll call and check... if there's no sign of drugs, maybe I can get back to sleep...._

He reached for the nightstand light before heading for the front room. The apartment's furnishings included a lumpy sofa in brown Naugahyde—too uncomfortable to sit on for long periods of time, but perfect for holding his stuff. Elliot plopped down on it then began to flip through one of the notepads he had left there.

_I used a new one for the Beale investigation... pulled it out again for the Fontana interview... Newman's data should be—yeah, there it is...._

Elliot then called the M.E's office. The call was picked up on the fifth ring.

"_OCME, Autopsy, Brody speaking."_

"Brody, it's Stabler. They got you working the graveyard shift?"

"_Funny, Stabler. Haven't heard that one before."_

Elliot grinned at the sarcasm in Assistant M.E. Brody's voice.

"_I'm covering for someone," _Brody continued, _"vacations, you know. What do you need?"_

"Can you look up an autopsy from last year? I need to check its tox report."

"_Sure. I've got nothing better to do. It's really dead here."_

Elliot gave a dutiful laugh then he recited Newman's full name and date of his death. Brody asked him to wait a few minutes before putting Elliot on hold.

_Smooth jazz... if the tox report doesn't shut my brain up, maybe the hold music will put me to sleep...._

He sat there, blinking and yawning, until Brody picked back up.

"_Found it. You want me to read you the whole thing or are you looking for something in particular?"_

"Any signs of date-rape drugs?" Elliot asked.

After a pause, Brody replied, _"Nope. Only thing present was alcohol. Blood ethanol was 0.233; vitreous was 0.246."_

"Damn."

"_Not what you were needing?"_

"No, it is what I was needing," Elliot admitted. "I just wish I hadn't woke up thinking it would be different."

"_Sorry, Stabler. Better luck next time."_

Elliot dropped his phone on the sofa besides the notepad...

_All that tossing and turning for nothing...._

... then he headed back to bed.

SVU Squadroom

14 August

Stabler arrived at work sixty-two minutes early.

_Never did get back to sleep... went running, then showered and came on in... might as well drink the coffee here then tackle some paperwork...._

To his surprise, the lights were on in both the squad and Cragen's office, and Fin's and Couch's desks showed signs of occupancy.

_Computers are on... mugs and notepads by their keyboards... they must have caught something overnight... no one's in holding... I'll check Interrogation after I get some coffee...._

The coffee carafe was half-full. Elliot gave it a sniff before filling his mug. Just as he put the carafe back on the hot plate, his partner entered the room.

"Liv," he greeted her. "What are you doing here so early?"

Olivia glanced around the room, checking to see that no one would overhear.

"I woke up thinking about Beale targeting his reports," she told him.

"That damn rumor kept me awake, too," he said as he raised the carafe again.

Olivia gave a nod, the answer to his unspoken question about coffee.

"Great minds think alike," she told him. "I was wondering if there was any other way to prove or disprove it then I remembered Newman. There was an autopsy done because he hanged himself and I figured—"

Elliot set Olivia's mug on her desk, its _thump_ interrupting her sentence.

"Forget it," he said. "I already called on it. Brody told me the tox screen showed nothing but alcohol in his system. Either he was drugged too long before his death for anything to show up or it didn't happen at all."

His partner looked disappointed.

"It's probably the second one. Damn."

"Yeah. You want to write this up for Branch? Sooner or later, he'll want the report."

"Usual payment?"

"Sure."

Olivia pulled her keyboard into position.

"Might as well finish it before everyone else shows up."

Interrogation Room

14 August

Tutuola and Sofarelli, on-call for the night before, had caught an attempted drugging of a drink at a nightclub. The first responders notified SVU due to the identity of the suspect. Now, the two detectives had him 'in the box,' cuffed to the table and facing the observation window. Couch was straddling a chair at his left elbow, close enough to touch him, while Fin stood over him.

Cragen, in slacks and a white golf shirt, was observing. The speaker by the window broadcast Fin's voice as he snarled at the suspect.

"_You so stupid—you went back to the same damn place and tried the same damn stunt again. You ever hear about the pitcher what went to the well too many times? It got busted—same as you...." _

Cragen smiled at the allusion and at the way the suspect shied away from Fin's angry harangue.

_I think John was the one who said, "Fin's good with fear."_

What made the pitcher allusion so appropriate was the condition of the suspect's face. He had two black eyes and major facial swelling. His lower lip was cut in two places and a large square of gauze covered his left jaw hinge and ear. He sat slumped in his chair with his right hand, also swaddled in gauze, cradled in his left.

The door behind Cragen opened. The rhythmic _thud_ of rubber on linoleum and the two sets of footsteps announced that Otten and Lake had entered the room.

"'Morning," Lake said to his CO. "I though you had the weekend off."

"I do," the captain replied. "As soon as this is wrapped up, I'm out of here."

Chester planted his crutches wide and leaned into them. Judith watched long enough to make sure he did not need assistance before joining Cragen at the window.

"He looks bad," she said with a nod toward the suspect. "Is that our work?"

"Only the bandages," Cragen replied, "The beatdown is courtesy of the friends of his intended victim. They caught him drugging her apple martini and beat the crap out of him before the bouncers could break it up."

"I'll bet the bouncers didn't try very hard," Chester said. "Isn't he the same guy Fin and Couch had in for questioning a while ago—that suspected date-rape?"

Cragen nodded. "Martin Jacobsmeier. Looks like Willow Salton will get justice after all."

Inside the room, they could see Jacobsmeier squinting up at Fin.

"_Okay, okay—I did it," _he said, _"Can I see a doctor now?"_

Cragen turned away from the window.

"That's good enough for me," he announced. "Chester, can you take over observing? Tell the guys for me that they did good."

"Sure thing, sir. Anything else?"

Cragen shook his head. "I'll have my cell. Tell Olivia to call me if anyone needs me, and I wish you all a quiet shift."

SVU Squadroom

14 August

"_A quiet shift'... talk about a forlorn hope...._

Judith dug into her paperwork and tried to ignore the complaints coming from the holding cell. Inside it, Martin Jacobsmeier was bemoaning his injuries and his lack of medical attention. Everyone took turns sending him dirty looks, but they did not quiet him. Fin detoured on his way for more coffee to get back in the perpetrator's face.

"Paramedics said you didn't need stitches," Fin told him, "and your hand ain't broken. There's a doctor at Rikers; just shut the hell up until you get there."

He then muttered to the room at-large. "Got no sympathy for rapists, especially the ones that use drugs."

A chorus of "Amens" greeted his pronouncement.

Munch finally closed the doors by the holding cell, which cut down some of Jacobsmeier's noise.

"Robbery will just open them again," Chester noted from his desk, where he was sitting with his leg propped on his side chair. "They'll say, 'If we have to listen, you have to listen.'"

Munch snagged the chair from Dan Womack's desk, the one closest to the door, and used it to barricade the closed doors. Loudoun left her desk to drag the chair back to its place.

"Fire regs, partner," she told him. "No blocking the egress. Want some ear plugs?"

John replied, "How about we check out some more Freds instead? We should be able to clear eight or so today."

Judith watched Munch head out the hall door with Loudoun close behind him.

_I know what he's avoiding... me saying something about last night... showing up at _Shabbat_ service with Connie announced to the world that they're a couple... I promised not to saying anything—Munch wants to choose the time and place he announces this to everyone here, but I can still twit him about attending... maybe when he gets back...._

On its stand by the interview room, the fax machine began to print. The steady _whir-whir_ of its print head set Judith's teeth on edge.

_I hate that sound... back and forth... back and forth.. my luck, it's dozens of pages and all text...._

Judith's mental complaining broke off when Olivia sat down in the side chair by her desk. The younger woman set her mug by the cactus garden then she addressed Judith.

"I went on-line to see your gift list, but I didn't find your name on any of the wedding registries. Aren't you registered?"

Judith stifled the urge to shout, "No—no gifts—no more stuff! I've had it with stuff!"

_It's not Olivia's fault I haven't cleaned out my closets in decades...._

"No," she replied, "and if there was a way to politely say 'No gifts,' I'd have used it. I'm having enough trouble figuring out what to keep, what to give away, and what to pitch without new stuff to worry about."

Judith pointed at the refrigerator under the stairs.

"I'm putting a list of furniture and appliances up Monday in the hopes of finding good homes for them. Need anything?"

Olivia shook her head. "Everyone I know has the same problem—too many possessions and not enough space."

The younger woman then peered at Judith's face.

"I really like those pearl studs you wear. Do you have a necklace to match them?"

Olivia's question piqued Judith's curiosity.

_The last time you asked about my jewelry was when I wore Joe's opals for the first time... he's been asking me this same sort of questions: what jewelry I like, do I collect anything...._

"By any chance," Judith replied, just to see Olivia's reaction, "did Joe call and ask you to ask me that?"

Olivia pulled back a bit. For a moment, her expression went blank then she grinned sheepishly.

"Yes, he did. He said he needed ideas for a wedding gift."

Judith smiled back at Olivia.

_First Joe pumps me for hints, then he bugs Connie for ideas, now he's roped Olivia into the act... he's obsessing 'way too much over the perfect wedding gift... I keep telling him it's enough he's still alive, but he doesn't believe me...._

"Joe seems to be on a pearl kick," she told Olivia. "Last night, he asked if I'd like a matched set of pearl-handled revolvers."

"For a wedding gift?" Chester asked. "Even I know that's not right."

Both Judith and Olivia chuckled.

"I think that's the idea," Judith replied. "If I don't come up some suggestions Joe can choose from, I'm getting handguns."

"So," Olivia asked, "what about the necklace?"

"I don't have one," Judith said. "Tell Joe pearls are a very traditional gift and, as a favor, tell him firearms aren't."

Olivia chuckled again then she took her mug and stood up.

"I'll do that," she said. "Thanks."

As Olivia headed back to her desk, Chester said, "I think your fiancé is going stir crazy."

"Gee," Judith said, making sure the syllable had lots of sarcasm, "what makes you think so?"

Chester leaned back in his chair and regarded her with a frank gaze.

"Are those guys you told me about still watching his building?" he asked.

Judith shrugged.

"We haven't spotted anyone," she replied, "but how can we tell for sure?"

_And Joe is worried the lack of watchers means they're trying another method... maybe targeting me... he wants me to have a bodyguard, even at work—he says Lake is in no shape to keep an eye on me...._

Chester winced in sympathy then he asked, "Any movement on Joe's appeal?"

Judith shook her head.

"Joe's lawyer is suggesting a civil suit. He thinks we have enough to show the brass should have known Joe would be targeted the second they kicked him off the force. However, Joe thinks suing is the same as admitting his appeal is doomed. He says the only thing that will make this right is getting his shield back."

Chester looked thoughtful then he said, "I can see that. Fontana's a prideful man."

Judith sighed her agreement.

_Yes, he is... he's also scared, although he won't admit it... and that makes two of us...._

On her way back at her desk, Olivia stopped by the fax machine. She glanced at the top sheet then picked up the printout and carried it to her partner's desk.

"It's for you," she told Elliot, "and it looks like Fontana kept his word about our visit."

Elliot took the stack of paper from her as he asked, "How do you know?"

Olivia glanced toward Judith, who was busy talking with Chester.

"When I asked Judith about gift ideas, she assumed Fontana had called me. If she knew about us being at his place, she would have known he didn't call me."

Elliot's only response was a low _hmm._ Olivia craned her neck over his computer monitor to see what had his attention.

_It's an autopsy report... those line drawings of corpses gives it away...._

"What's that?" she asked.

Elliot kept his eyes on the papers before him. He flipped several pages, read for a bit, then flipped to the next page. Just as she was about to ask again, he looked up.

"We got a problem. Wait a few minutes then meet me by the wiener stand."

Before she could ask why, Elliot grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. He folded the fax lengthwise and slid it and a notepad into his jacket pocket before leaving through the hall door.

Nick's Hot Dog Stand

14 August

Olivia hurried past the cops and civilian personnel who were taking a smoke break by the main entrance, as she headed to the corner where Nick worked his hot dog cart. As she approached, she saw Elliot bolting down the last bite of a mustard-covered hot dog.

_It's barely ten o'clock... what the hell is he doing?_

Before she could ask, Elliot pointed up the avenue.

"I was hungry," he told her. "No breakfast. Let's head around the corner. I need to show you something."

Olivia turned left, leaving the sunlit corner for the shade of the north side of the precinct house. As soon as they were out of sight of the hot dog vendor, Elliot took the fax from his pocket then held its cover page flat for her to read.

_It's from Brody... 'I read through Newman's autopsy—you may on onto something. Take a look at last __ external and the gastro section.' _

She looked up from her reading, ready to ask which Newman Brody meant.

"Yeah, it's Marc Newman," Elliot told her. "Here's the last paragraph of the external exam."

He shuffled the pages then held them again for her to read.

_'Evidence of minor tearing of the anus consistent with constipation or careful anal sex. No signs of violent penetration....' _

She looked up from the report in shock.

_Newman had anal sex before he died?_

"I should have asked Jerry," Elliot said, "if Newman sounded constipated when he interviewed him."

Olivia scowled at the weak joke.

"What about the internal exam?" she asked. "Does it confirm anything?"

Elliot slid the topmost page to the bottom of the stack.

"The ME reported several small fissures inside the rectum," he said. "They're also attributed to constipation or careful anal sex."

"How about the intestinal contents?"

Elliot shuffled the papers again until the gastrointestinal description was on top.

"_''_The mucosa of the large intestine is unremarkable,'" he read aloud, "'and its lumen contains soft stool.' Sounds like constipation wasn't Newman's problem."

Olivia slumped against the side of the precinct house.

"Why didn't someone pick up on this?"

Elliot folded the papers but kept them bunched in his grip.

"Because they didn't have the benefit of those rumors about Beale and Fontana's story," he told her, "and because Newman's suicide already had a good explanation."

He blew out a long breath, a move Olivia copied.

"The autopsy doesn't resolve anything," she said. "It's like everything else we've uncovered on this case; there's more than one way to look at it."

"This time," Elliot agreed, "there's three ways of looking at this: Newman had consensual anal sex that with an unidentified partner. Newman was raped by someone, maybe Beale. Newman was having trouble going poopy."

Try as she might, Olivia could not resist a laugh at her partner's choice of words.

"I can see you explaining that one to Branch," she said with a grin.

Elliot's lopsided smile lasted only a second.

"It's like a monster movie," he said. "'The Rumor That Can't Be Killed.' Every time we think it's over, something like this comes up."

He shook the papers in his hand to emphasize the fact. Olivia ignored the motion so she could consider their problem.

_We have to verify this... I'm as sick of this mess as Elliot is... but we're still dealing with a bureau chief... it's exactly as the DA said... if we're wrong, we ruin a good man's career and life... hell, just bringing his bondage fun out in the open could do that... we have to be sure...._

Olivia checked her partner. Elliot was standing before, unconsciously standing at parade rest while he pondered the same problem.

"We have to call the other men we interviewed," he said. "They're all we have left—unless you want to tail Beale and seeing who or what he's doing."

Olivia shook her head.

_Follow him while he plays eighteen holes of golf with Cragen? Hell, no... that's just asking to be noticed...._

"You're right," she replied. "Maybe, if we ask if they went anywhere with Beale a day or two before their promotions—"

"—and if they remember feeling hungover or sick afterward," Elliot said, finishing her sentence. "If any of them say 'Yes,' I'll feel better about taking this to Branch."

Olivia pulled her cell phone from her pocket.

"Shall I call Keith?"

Elliot shook his head. "Try Randy Blais first. He won't ask us questions like Keith would. He's also down in D.C. so he's not likely to run into Beale and mention this to him."

"Got his number?"

Elliot slid the autopsy report back into his jacket pocket before taking out his notepad. He recited the number for his partner.

"Let's see if Blais answers his phone on a Saturday," she said as the call went through.

Olivia heard four rings then a click as the call forwarded to another line. It rang three more times before a male voice answered with a "Hello?" She introduced herself then asked if she was talking to Randy Blais.

"_That's me. Didn't I talk to you last month? Something about Arthur Branch and Andrew Beale?_"

"Yes, you did," Olivia confirmed. "I hate to bother you, but I've been told to ask you two more questions."

"_Will it take long?"_

"No, not long at all. First, did you and Bureau Chief Beale spend any time socially the week of your promotion?"

Elliot smiled his approval of her wording as Blais replied, _"Yes, we went to dinner the night before. He said it was either a pre-celebration or a practice commiseration, depending on how things went."_

Olivia signaled Blais' response with a thumbs-up gesture.

"Now, do you remember anything odd about that dinner? Anything the bureau chief said or did? Maybe someone near you at the restaurant...?"

She let the question trail off, hoping that Blais would fill in the blank without her prompting. Several seconds passed before his reply.

"_I remember feeling sick the next morning—groggy, like I slept badly, but I don't remember being awake. I figured it was something I ate."_

Olivia gave Elliot an emphatic nod then she said, "Well, I'm not the food police. Was there anything else?"

When Blais said "No," she thanked him and ended the call then told her partner what he had said.

"Think that's enough for probable cause?" he asked.

"Call Branch," she replied. "Let him decide."

SVU Squadroom

14 August

Stabler's call to the district attorney had gone to voicemail. He then had left a duplicate message on Jack McCoy's phone.

_It's Saturday... all we can do is hope they check their office messages and get right back to us...._

In the meantime, he and Olivia worked their cases by making follow-up phone calls, filing the appropriate requests and paperwork, and discussing the results of their searches and requests.

_And we both keep looking at our phones, hoping the DA will call back...._

Elliot turned his head away from his umpteenth check of his silent cell, which lay by his photo of his kids.

"You want to recanvass on the Peska attack?" he asked.

Olivia kept typing as she answered.

"In that neighborhood on a Saturday in August? Elliot, you'd have to drive to the shore to find anyone who might have heard her screaming."

"Yeah, you're right.

Elliot glanced again at his cell.

_It's almost three... Branch is probably gone for the weekend... McCoy, too...._

He then leaned back in his chair and raised his arms above his head for a good stretch.

_Fin and Couch are out following up on an abuse case they caught earlier this week... Chester and Judith are tracking down leads for Howie's shift... Judith must be on the phone to Montreal—she's speaking French... Chester's been picking up faxes all afternoon... can't be easy what with those crutches, but that's what "desk duty" means...._

"Whatcha got there, Chester?" Elliot called out.

Chester swung his crutches around until he faced Elliot.

"Background check on one of Munch's Freds," Lake told him. "Phoenix PD says the man moved there in 2003 and hasn't had as much as a speeding ticket. He lives in a gated community where you have to be fifty-five or older to get in—no kids allowed. The detective I spoke to said the community limits visits from grandkids to two weeks, tops."

"I think you can tell Munch to cross that guy off his list."

"Me, too. Looks like John is going to hit a dead end on this one."

With that, Lake made his way to John's desk to drop the fax then he headed through the hallway door. Elliot pulled his chair into his desk and stared at his computer monitor.

_Maybe I should look up Branch's home address... take him what we got in person...._

Just then, his cell rang. As Elliot reached for it, he saw his partner tip her head so she could see him answer it.

_My luck, it's a wrong number...._

"Stabler."

"_Branch. I just got your message. You have proof Beale is dirty?"_

"I think we found enough for a search warrant," he replied. Across the desk, Olivia agreed with a slight nod.

Seconds passed.

_I'll bet he's weighing the politics... how big a mess is this gonna make and is there an upside...._

Finally, the DA said _"Detective, I need to see what you have this evening. Where will you be at six-thirty?"_

"At home with my family."

His sharp tone put a worried look on Olivia's face.

_Hey—I'm the one that waited all day for him to call back...._

Branch's voice sounded contrite.

"_Detective, would you mind if I briefly disturbed your family time this evening by meeting you at your house? I understand it's an imposition but, this way, I won't be taking you away for too long, and it's best if we don't discuss this where we might be overheard."_

Elliot rolled his eye for Olivia's benefit.

_I think my bluff just got called...._

"Of course, sir," he replied. "Do you need my address?"

"_No, I'm sure my driver can find it."_

The _click _of a phone disconnecting ended the conversation. Elliot met his partner's questioning gaze.

"You doing anything tonight?"

"The night before a double?," she replied with a laugh. "You've got to be kidding."

Elliot called his home. "In that case, I'll see if Kathy can set another place. We're meeting Branch there at six-thirty."

At the far end of the squadroom, Munch and Loudoun had returned.

"Hi, kids—we're home!" John called to the room at-large.

From his desk, Chester pointed at the stack of paper by Munch's keyboard.

"The reports on Freds Reid and McCarran came in," he told Munch. "Both look to be in the clear."

"Damn," Munch said as he slid into his chair. "We checked out six today; none look promising."

"Which leaves four for tomorrow and then we're shut of this," Loudoun added.

John glared at her as she took a bottle of sweet tea from the fridge.

"You mean to say," he informed her, "'We fail to find Amy Choi's killer."

Donna gave him a contrite, if slightly insincere smile.

"You're right. That's exactly what I meant."

She paused by Judith's side to whisper, "Four more Freds and we can move on to solvable cases."

"Don't give up until you have to," Judith admonished her. "Stranger things have happened."


	23. Getting The Paperwork In Order

Author's Notes:

CYO = Catholic Youth Organization

Billy O'Dell: a pitcher for the Baltimore Orioles in 1954 and from 1956-1959, when Munch was a boy and would have been following the team

Alvin Toffler: author of the book, "The Third Wave," a sequel to his "Future Shock." The Third Wave was Toffler's name for post-industrial society (i.e., nowadays)

Reading room: another euphemism for rest room'

'… clothes-lined him and crushed his windpipe…' Blunt laryngeal trauma from a blow to the front of the throat can result in permanent hoarseness and a restricted airway (this is a non-canon reason for Salazar leaving the NYPD for the DA's office.)

I'm not a lawyer. Any faults in legalese or methodology should be blamed on the Internet

Residence of the Stabler Family

Queens, NY

14 August (Saturday)

Arthur Branch's driver delivered the DA and two other people to the Stabler home punctually at six-thirty. Kathy had greeted the arrivals by herself, leaving Elliot and Olivia to wait for them at the picnic table under the backyard's maple tree.

_Her decision… she told us she wanted a few words with the man who thought nothing of barging into her family's quiet summer evening… ._

Kathy's ire melted after a profuse apology from the District Attorney, whose voice Olivia could hear boom through the open windows of the kitchen.

_He did sound very sincere…._

Kathy escorted the trio to the picnic table then offered everyone iced tea, which they all declined. She gave her husband a tight smile before returning to the house.

_I'll bet that smile means 'Don't let this take too long....'_

Branch introduced his companions.

_Jack McCoy—we've worked with him before… the ADA is Alexandra Borgia… Branch must have disturbed their Saturday plans, too… that black stain on the knee of McCoy's jeans looks like motor oil… Borgia is dressed for the beach—the shirt she's wearing over her halter top has wrinkles from being knotted in front and there's sand embedded in her sneaker laces… and what is it with ADAs and the name "Alex"? Is it a job requirement or something?_

The district attorney started with a command to the detectives: "Show me what you've got."

Elliot laid out the photo array with Beale's photo and Fontana's identifying mark and signature. Olivia's report of their interview with Fontana he put next to the photo array. He then set down the transcriptions of their morning phone call to Randy Blais and a call Olivia had made to Jim Stephanos later in the day.

_Stephanos told me he and Beale had gone for drinks the night before he learned of his appointment to the mayor's task force… he remembers oversleeping and almost missing the phone call… could have been a result of being drugged—could also have been a hangover or him just forgetting to set his alarm…._

Last of all, Elliot placed Newman's autopsy report with Brody's note on the table before Branch.

_It all ties together… if you know enough about predators… if you can bridge the gaps… and if you don't let Beale's cheerful personality and pudginess distract you… that's the mistake I made with Bridget Shanahan's rapist… I let his physical disability cloud my professional judgment…. _

Branch, McCoy, and Borgia examined all the evidence in silence as though they wished to exclude Stabler and Benson from the decision process.

_Except Branch is scowling at that photo array… McCoy's eyebrows just shot up his forehead—he's reading Fontana's account of meeting Beale… Borgia looks a little queasy… she's holding the autopsy report... I wonder if she knew Newman…._

Next to her, Elliot muttered something about getting some yard work done while he waited.

_Yeah, I'm feeling ignored, too… and I'm starting to wish I'd taken Kathy up on that glass of tea—if only for something to occupy my hands…._

Olivia listened to the sounds of cicadas whirring in the tree above her as she wondered how long three lawyers could go without saying a word. Finally, the district attorney looked up from the papers and addressed McCoy.

"Jack, what do you make of all this?"

McCoy shook his head over the assembled papers.

"It's not a smoking gun, but it's much more than I expected."

"Can you get a search warrant based on it?"

McCoy gave the evidence a sour frown then he picked up the photo array and the transcript of Fontana's interview and set them aside.

"Kinky sex isn't illegal," he noted.

He moved the autopsy report onto the transcript.

"There's nothing to put Andrew with Marc Newman right before the news of his appointment. That means we can't tie Newman's injuries to him."

McCoy pointed to the phone call transcripts.

"All we have left are a law clerk and an ADA who may have felt sick after a night drinking with their boss, and that's not enough for suspicion—let alone a warrant."

Branch turned to Borgia and asked her who was on rotation for the weekend. His scowl deepened as she listed the judges on-call for warrants and other judicial matters.

"Then we can definitely forget it," Jack said. "I've heard rumors Barry and Simpson will back Andrew if he runs against you, and McAllister defines 'probable cause' so strictly, he'll laugh himself sick at what we've got."

Olivia glanced at Elliot, who shrugged in reply.

_I suppose we could talk to every man who ever worked for Beale—see if any of them have stories that match what Blais and Stephanos told us… but we'd probably find more men who don't remember anything incriminating…._

The feeling that someone was staring at her brought Olivia out of her thoughts. She looked back at the attorneys and saw Branch's scowl aimed at her.

_Don't blame us… we can't dig up what isn't there…._

"Detectives," Branch asked, "how does your Sunday look?"

Elliot snorted in unison with Olivia's stifled laugh.

"It's shift change," Elliot replied. "We're both working sixteen hours straight."

"And we're down two detectives," Olivia added, "plus Captain Cragen won't be in."

She watched as Branch pondered that information.

_He's thinking hard about something… and I don't like the way he keeps staring at us…._

She also saw McCoy and Borgia exchange puzzled glances.

_No one knows what's going on… that's great—really great…._

Finally, Branch addressed Elliot.

"Detective Stabler, please convey my gratitude again to your lovely wife for allowing me to disrupt her evening. I also thank both you and Detective Benson for the efforts you've put into this matter."

He signaled for Borgia to gather the reports and photos from the table.

"There is a chance," he continued, "that I will need your assistance again tomorrow. I assume you will be available."

The blunt statement, containing no hint of request or uncertainty, forced Olivia to nod her agreement in unison with her partner.

_I know an order when I hear one…._

"In that case, I bid you both a good evening."

Branch followed his farewell with a swift departure through the gate by the garage. McCoy and Borgia trailed after him, McCoy shaking his head as though he disapproved of the DA's actions, Borgia catching Olivia's gaze long enough to raise her eyebrows in bewilderment.

_You and me both…._

Limousine assigned to the District Attorney

Enroute from Queens to Manhattan

14 August

McCoy and Borgia entered the limo with Branch, Jack taking the seat next to him, Alex across. As soon as the driver shut the door behind them, McCoy started peppering his boss with questions, but the DA silenced him with a growl

"I have one more ace up my sleeve," he told his EADA, "one I didn't want to slip in where Stabler and Benson would see it."

He smiled at Borgia.

_Poor girl… I told her only the bare essentials on the way over… she looks as confused as a hungry cow on Astroturf…._

"Jack," he said as his driver pulled away from the curb, "suppose I tell you I have an affidavit from an undercover operative who observed Beale stalking a victim?"

Jack mulled the question for a moment then replied, "'Officer source of knowledge' is valid probable cause. I don't see how a judge could ignore that, but…."

Jack twisted in his seat to face his boss.

"…do you have such an affidavit?"

"I have a verbal report from said operative," Branch told him.

He held his bland expression as Alex gaped at him. Jack beat her to the reply.

"You're going to stand in front of Robbie McAllister and swear an informant told you he witnessed Andrew stalk one of his subordinates?"

Arthur grimaced at the thought.

_I wish… then we could keep this in-house and much quieter…._

"No," he replied. "I'm going to swear my informant witnessed my bureau chief stalking the commander of the Manhattan SV unit."

Alex gasped.

"You can't be serious," she blurted. "I mean…."

"Oh, Alexandra," Branch told her, "I am very serious."

Borgia pulled the autopsy report from the stack of papers she held on her lap and waved it at the DA.

"This is real," she said, her voice shrill and shaky. "Andrew Beale really did this to Marc?"

"Yes," Branch admitted. "I'm afraid there is a good chance that he did."

"I knew Marc," Alex said. "I went to school with Jenny, his fiancée. I can't believe this."

"I'm still having trouble with it, too," McCoy said. "Arthur, if word gets out you deliberately left Cragen dangling out there as bait, it won't look good for you or the office."

"I was hoping," Branch replied, "we would find enough to clear Beale or arrest him before it got to that point. Turns out, we didn't do the former and we're running out of time to do the latter. Do either of you know what Andrew's plans are for Sunday?"

When both Borgia and McCoy shook their heads, Branch pulled out his cell phone. As soon as his call was answered, he said, "Andrew? It's Arthur. I seemed to have misplaced my golf partner for tomorrow. Are you free?"

Beale's reply was exactly what he needed.

"Andrew, you know I'd never get between a man and his favorite team, even if they are the Yankees. I'll try Sam Kenney—yes, I know, but none of us are perfect. You enjoy your Sunday."

Branch ended the call then turned to McCoy.

"Andrew will be at the Yankees game in the afternoon then he is booked for dinner—I assume with Captain Cragen. We should have a clear shot at his place anytime after 12:30 tomorrow. Alexandra…."

_She still looks a mite green around the gills… and Robbie won't be happy about seeing us on his doorstep bright and early on a Sunday … so it won't hurt if Alexandra does the paperwork in the morning…._

"Come in first thing tomorrow and take care of that warrant application," he told her. "I'll meet you at the office when you're finished then we'll head over to Judge McAllister's to swear out the affidavit and get the warrant."

Without waiting for Borgia to assent, Branch turned to McCoy.

"Our people should do the search of Beale's place, but I want someone outside my office overseeing it. Get either Stabler or Benson—no sense in dragging both of them away from their duties for this."

Jack bobbed his head once then he asked, "And what are you hoping they'll find? Trophies?"

"Trophies would be nice," Branch replied, "but, knowing Andrew and his high opinion of himself, I'm hoping for video—Technicolor high-fidelity proof that he's a sick son of a bitch."

_Anything less and we're back to being stalled in our tracks… and Beale gets a free shot at Captain Cragen…._

"Speaking of which," Branch continued, "don't say anything to Stabler or Benson about their captain and Beale. I don't want either detective distracted from their trophy hunt."

"But what about Cragen?" McCoy demanded. "Suppose things get out of hand? Suppose—"

Branch silenced him with a sharp glare.

"Cragen's a big boy. You just concentrate on finding what we need to stop Beale."

Manhattan SVU Squadroom

15 August (Sunday)

_I hate double-shifts… and I hate the seniority system—especially when it lets someone else take shift-change off… and that plate of Otten-made muffins just rubs our noses in that gross unfairness…._

John Munch snatched a cranberry-walnut muffin from the tray by the coffee pot.

_However, gross unfairness is no reason to let good food go to waste…._

"Hey, Munch," Sofarelli called to him, "toss me one of those green ones."

John picked up a lettuce muffin by its paper-covered bottom and lobbed it to Couch. The younger man snatched it from the air with one hand. When Chester held his hands up, cupped and ready to catch, John selected a blueberry muffin then mimed an elaborate pitcher's wind-up.

_Just like Billy O'Dell in Memorial Stadium back when I was a kid…._

He peppered the muffin straight at Lake. The baked good hit top-first and smushed against the palms of Chester's hands. The detective frowned at its flattened shape.

"Now it won't taste right," he told Munch.

"Taste follows function, not form," John replied. "Besides, you signaled for a fastball."

"Did Judith drop those off this morning?" Couch asked, his words somewhat muffled by muffin.

"I found them in the fridge when I got in," Elliot answered. "I don't know how she kept Howie's shift from eating them."

John glanced in the trash receptacle at his feet.

_Looks like a dozen or so muffin wrappers…so she fed both shifts… smart move, Otten…._

He then took his muffin and his mug of tea to his desk, where Loudon was again looking over the reports Lake had gathered for them on Saturday.

"You want to look harder at this Reid guy?" she asked. "I know Phoenix PD said he lives where there's no access to children , but he could still check out playgrounds or schoolyards or whatever."

John curled his lip at the forlorn hope in her suggestion.

_We have only four more Freds to check out here in the city then that one in Phoenix…. I hate to admit it, but this investigation is down to fumes…_

"If today's four give us nothing," he replied, "then we'll see about—"

Olivia interrupted him by waving a slip of paper in his face.

"Got a body," she told him. "You and Donna."

John reared back from the paper as he glared at Benson.

"We have four suspects to check out. Give it to Couch and…."

He hesitated before saying Fin's name. Olivia used the gap to drop the note onto Amy Choi's case folder.

"This one is fresh and in Tompkins Square Park," she said. "Let me know if you'd rather have the one in Inwood."

John wasted no time snatching the note from the folder.

_Tompkins Square Park… not far from where Amy Choi's body was left… and near where our last four Freds are to be found… damn right I'll take it…._

He smiled his thanks at Olivia, who grinned in reply before handing a similar slip of paper to Sofarelli.

"Couch, Inwood is yours," she informed him. "As soon as Fin gets back from the reading room, get going."

To her partner, she said, "Looks like last night was a bad one for park-goers."

"That's why I stayed in," Elliot responded. "Got plenty of sleep so I'd be rested and ready for today."

He leaned back in his chair then he set both feet on his desk, folding his hands behind his head. When John glared at him, Elliot grinned in reply.

"You know the third one is always the worst," he told John. "While you guys are out handling the ripples, me and Liv will be swamped by that third wave."

John scowled at him before turning back to the note on his desk.

_I'd mention Toffler, but he'd mistake it for about chewy candy… intellectual, Elliot ain't…._

"So good of Stabler to offer to take one for us," he muttered. "You ready?"

When Donna said she was, John took a big gulp of his tea then, with his muffin balanced on the Choi case folder before him, he and his partner left the squadroom

Residence of the Honorable Robert S. McAllister

15 August (Sunday)

_Something smells really good… I had coffee and yogurt at my desk while preparing the warrant application… thought it would hold me through the morning, but whatever Mrs. McAllister is cooking for lunch makes me wish Arthur would wrangle an invitation for the two of us…._

Alex Borgia tried to put the aroma of garlic and searing meat out of her mind by concentrating on her surroundings.

_Pink canopy bed heaped with stuffed animals… unicorn posters on the wall and rainbow-patterned drapes… looks really weird with the judge's walnut desk and his legal cabinets and bookshelves… worse thing is that the only place to sit is on the bed itself… Arthur in his suit and tie on a frilly pink bedspread… I wish Jack could see this…._

The judge, a tall lean man with sandy brown hair and a full beard streaked with gray, gave the princess side of his home office an indulgent smile.

"My granddaughter," McAllister told the DA. "We have her every other weekend. She would be with my son, but he…."

Alex watched McAllister duck his head in embarrassment.

_His son is doing time for smuggling Asian meth… not a good thing…._

"It's good your daughter-in-law lets Emily visit you," Branch told him.

"Yes, well… I guess Heather thought someone should get his visitation time, but that's neither here nor there."

McAlister picked up the affidavit the DA had brought with him and read through it a second time. While they waited, Borgia observed Branch sitting beside her, his expression impassive, his gaze on the papers before the judge.

_I asked on the way over what Arthur thought about all this… he said, 'Alexandra, the world would be a better place if evil would clean up its own messes.' He didn't say another word for the entire rest of the drive… I guess that means he knows how bad this will be for him… no matter how it turns out…._

When McAllister had finished his reading, he met Branch's gaze straight-on.

"Andrew and I were at Yale Law together," the judge said, "although I was a year ahead of him. To think you suspect him of…."

The judge shuddered before turning the affidavit around so its signature line was toward Branch.

"Arthur, are you certain you want to go through with this? I've seen stronger evidence against an accused and, like I said, I know Andrew. He'll make a bad enemy if you end up being wrong about this."

Arthur squared his shoulders as though assuming a heavy burden.

"I'm not wrong, Robbie. As much as I'd like everything to be different, the facts of the case are as stated in ADA Borgia's application."

McAllister frowned at Branch then he said, "Very well. Arthur Branch, are you prepared to swear that this is a true and impartial account of your informant's report?"

"I am."

"Then come over here and raise your right hand."

Alex watched as Branch wrapped his hand around the pink corner post of the bed and pulled himself to his feet. He then crossed the room and stood before the judge's desk with his right hand held palm-forward, elbow bent, and at shoulder height.

McAllister drew in a deep breath.

"Arthur Branch," he said, "do you solemnly swear that the contents of this affidavit subscribed by you is correct and true?"

"I do."

The words, voiced with solemn force, seemed to hang over desk as McAllister handed the DA a pen.

"Then sign your name at the bottom.

After Branch had completed the scrawl that was his legal signature, the judge set the form aside.

"I see nothing amiss with your search application," he said, including Borgia in the compliment with a smile in her direction.

_Glad he knows who did the real work here…._

Taking the smile as a cue, Alex got to her feet and joined the DA before the desk.

"This is for Andrew's residence and any storage closets or lockers assigned to him and located in the same building," McAllister said as he straightened the warrant application on the desk before him. "Do you anticipate a need to search his vehicle?"

"Andrew doesn't own a car," Branch offered, "and I'll be extremely disappointed in his intelligence if he's hiding anything in his city-supplied one."

Alex stifled a giggle.

_I shouldn't laugh… but if Arthur can manage to crack a joke today, someone ought to notice it…._

"Okay, then—one search warrant for the residence of Andrew Beale, Esquire. We'll worry about other sites when and if we need to."

The judge shuffled through the stack of paper, initialing and signing the appropriate places, then he handed the warrant to Borgia.

"As much as I hate to say this, Arthur—I hope you find what you're looking for. Andrew has a lot of friends both here and in Albany. He'll be a formidable opponent come election time. If you can't prove your allegations, I doubt you'll weather the shitstorm he'll throw at you."

Branch's sour grimace showed he already knew what the fallout would be.

"It will be tough even if we're right," he told McAllister. "I'm the one who promoted Beale to bureau chief. Once people remember that fact, they're going to start wondering how a sex pervert and predator made it through the vetting process. It won't matter that Beale was hired under Schiff; it will still be my failure."

Arthur's lips then twisted in an attempt at a smile.

"Of course," he continued, "the upside is that Andrew Beale won't drug and rape anyone ever again."

The judge pointed his pen at the DA.

"Only if you find evidence against him," he warned Branch. "Remember—you still need that."

Branch agreed with a nod then he took his leave of Judge McAllister. Alex followed him from the judge's home, both of them holding their words until they were back in Branch's limo.

"Well," the DA said, "that's done. Who do you have lined up for the search?"

"Hector Salazar and Ted Robinson," she replied. "They're at the office waiting for me to call. You want me to contact Stabler or Benson?"

Branch did not hesitate before saying, "Benson. We'll only get one shot at this and she seems the more organized of the two. Tell Salazar that you'll be going along to observe the search. Make sure they check everywhere but don't let them leave a mess. If I have to eat crow over this, I don't want a side dish of untidiness to accompany my meal."

Alex nodded agreement as she got out her phone. Branch stared through the window at the passing city while she called Detective Benson, then the DA investigators. When she finished the second call, he asked about the application for Beale's arrest.

"I've got it ready," she replied. "All I need is cause."

"Good," Branch told her. "Let's hope you find enough to nail him for good. That sh—uh, manure storm Robbie warned me about will be easier to weather if we can get Beale behind bars before anything else happens."

Alex drew in a breath but, before she could speak, the DA turned his attention to the passing scenery, ending their conversation. She eyed his profile for a while as she wondered what he was thinking.

'_Anything else happens'… I guess he means 'anything happens to Captain Cragen'… I couldn't believe it when Jack said Arthur was using him as bait… I still can't… I know Arthur is ruthless, but this is worse than anything I thought he was capable of…._

Alex suppressed a shudder.

_I don't care if Captain Cragen knows enough to protect himself… just risking him that way—it's wrong… so very wrong…._

Residence of Don Cragen

Bensonhurst, NY

15 August

_He is my friend… he is my friend…._

At that moment, Cragen was leaning against the sink in his kitchen, and his friend was squatting in front of the open refrigerator as he checked the contents of the veggie bin. The counter beside the fridge was heaped with jars of spices and condiments, unfamiliar utensils, and a large glass salad bowl. The shelves in the refrigerator were laden with Don's own groceries plus two parcels wrapped in butcher paper, more condiments, and a six-pack of plastic water bottles of a brand Don did not recognize.

I checked everything out last night… the meat is in its original wrappers… the jars all new and still sealed… the water is flavored—mint, of all things… and the caps haven't been tampered with and I couldn't find anything under the labels or where the bottles were extruded… flavored water would hide any added drugs but, if he's tampered with it, I can't tell….

"Looks like your crisper is doing its job," Beale said, his voice muffled by his position. "I hate limp arugula."

Don recited his mantra twice more then decided a jibe was in order.

"You could always make wilted lettuce salad. It was one of Marge's favorites."

"That's made with iceberg, not this stuff," Beale replied. "_Fattoush_ made without arugula would be obscene."

Don stifled a laugh at the strange word

_Fattoush… that's exactly what's sticking out from my fridge…. _

"What was that, Don?"

"That was me about to ask what the hell _Fattoush_ is,"Cragen replied.

"Oh. For a moment, I thought you were going to make a crack about my posterior."

Don quickly shook his head. "Never, Andrew, but I am wondering what you're planning to feed me."

Andrew rocked back on his heels and levered himself upright before peering quizzically at Don.

"Didn't I tell you? The best steak you'll ever wrap your lips around, the perfect hot weather salad, and a blueberry crisp whose recipe is a family secret so don't even ask."

Don faked an appreciative smile.

"Sounds great. It also sounds like a lot of work."

Andrew waved the idea away with a flick of his wrist.

"It's my idea of fun, Don—especially in a kitchen like yours. Mine would fit in here twice over, and I don't have the luxury of a window with a poolside view. Seriously, I plan to enjoy every minute of this."

_Sure hope I'm going to do the same…._

Beale then glanced at his watch.

"We'd better get going. Time and baseball wait for no man."

He turned toward the hall to the front door, Don stayed put.

_I can still beg off—stomach ache, a faked emergency with my dad, whatever gets me out of going… the moment I start out the door, I'm committed…. _

"You do have our tickets?" he asked.

Andrew patted his back pocket.

"Right here," he said over his shoulder. "Everything's in order. Now, get a move on. I can't keep you too entertained to worry if you insist on standing there worrying."

"Okay, okay—I'm moving."

On his way out, Don quickly ran through his leaving checklist.

_Weapon, shield, doors locked, alarm set… I've got my phone and John said he'd start calling around shift change… I guess I'm ready…._


	24. Summertime And The Living Ain't Easy

Hector Salazar was a character on L&O:Trial by Jury.

"The Purloined Letter": a short story by Edgar Allen Poe, in which the object in question is hidden in plain sight

The Yankee-Oriole game in this story actually was played on August 15, 2007. That date in Real Life was a Wednesday but, other than day of the week and time, I've made no other changes to it.

Folies Bergère: famous Paris music hall

Muumuu: tent-like dress, usually made of cotton cloth in bright colors

RTCC: Real Time Crime Center, the NYPD number-crunchers who put together Munch's list of possible suspects

Sherpa: member of a tribe indigenous to the mountains of Nepal. Many are skilled mountaineers who guide expeditions in the Himalayas.

Aqualung imitation: from Jethro Tull's song "Aqualung" ("Sitting on a park bench, eyeing little girls with bad intent….")

City goat: an epithet from "Homicide: Life on the Streets" that means "urban hillbilly"

BOLO: "Be On Lookout" It's old terminology, but it is used on the show.

Lightwell: the glassed-in areas that are in the middle of the hall leading to SVU. They let light into the center of the building and, before AC, provided ventilation.

10-13: "Officer needs assistance"

Fin curses in this chapter.

Residence of Joseph Fontana  
17 Battery Place  
Manhattan, NY  
15 August (Sunday)

Judith had arrived a few minutes before ten a.m. With her were two grocery bags and a Praesidium operative.

_I insisted on the escort… Friday night, Arndt reported several young Hispanic males loitering outside the business entrance, the resident's entrance, and the parking garage… different ones were hanging around on Saturday morning, but the original bunch was back that evening… we're being watched and I'll bet that stunt Judith pulled Thursday put her right in their crosshairs… she isn't happy about the protection, but she knows as well as I do—you can't watch your own back, and the one that always gets you is the one you don't see coming....  
_  
What he could see coming was weighing heavily on Fontana.

_That twerp Dworkin isn't getting anywhere… it's not all his fault—Balzano has closed the castle gate and bolted all the doors and windows … so long as the department stands behind him, he can afford to let my appeal drag out… what with the legal fees, the medical bills, and all of Praesidium's charges, I'm bleeding money… even with Judith's picking up part of the tab, it's still flowing out faster than it's coming in…._

Joe leaned on the counter, his walker next to him, as he watched Judith unpack her groceries.

_I can't complain about the quality of the protection we're getting, but it's most effective in controlled environments like here… it's too easy to get close to Judith... a gangbanger could pick her off at a crime scene or at her home or outside the One-Six … if they don't go after her, there's always some other member of her family—or mine… I can't protect all of us—not unless they all want to move in with me…._

Judith closed the refrigerator door then turned to face Joe. Her hair was loose, gray-blonde strands brushing the shoulders of her baby blue blouse. Her gaze brushed past him to focus at something behind him, a sign she was still considering her strategies.

"We should move the sofa over by your pole then put the two chairs facing it," she told him. "That way, you and I can sit next to each other while Derek and Cammie are separated—sort of 'divide and conquer.' Think Wainwright would mind if I asked him to help with the moving?"

"Probably not," Joe replied.

_And it will end up as a line item on the next invoice: 'extraneous moving fees: one operative at $125 an hour minimum....'_

"Good. With that, and the family photos, and me making Derek's favorite meal, we should be in good shape."

Judith's gaze shifted to him, and her slight intake of breath warned of a change in subject.

_I bet I know what's coming…._

"Joe, do you think you could apologize to Cammie if she wants you to?"

_And I got it in one…don't see why I should… just because Cammie thinks I broke up her parents' marriage doesn't make it true... Tamara Landis was not married when I was seeing her… so maybe the ink was barely dry on that divorce decree… and maybe I was the latest in a long string of men enjoying her charms... Tamara was charming, no doubt—but, as far as she was concerned, the word 'faithful' was nothing more than two meaningless syllables stuck together… Cammie should be blaming her mother and those other guys, not me…._

Joe looked Judith square in the eye.

"You know that wasn't my fault."

Judith nodded. He tried to read her expression, but failed.

_She has a great poker face… and she's never said a word about me and all those women… never asked me to explain or excuse myself…._

The thought that perhaps Judith wouldn't mind hearing him apologize for past behavior made him reconsider.

"Yeah," he admitted, "I guess I could, if it makes peace in the family. After all, it's not Cammie's fault her mother is a—"

Judith's blank expression tightened into a frown, and Joe left his sentence unfinished.

_Maybe calling Tamara a slut isn't a good idea… it does take two to tango…._

He reached across the counter for Judith's hand. When she slid it into his grasp, he gave her hand a squeeze.

"Y'know," he assured her, "I'm never gonna be like that again. Now that I have you, I don't need anybody else."

The smile that spread slowly across Judith's mouth and her embarrassed chuckle told Joe he'd said the right thing.

"I really appreciate your doing that," she told him. "I think it will help a lot."

She gave his hand a squeeze in return then released it.

"Now, I'd better get that furniture moved."

Judith left the kitchen for the bedroom where the Praesidium operatives had set up shop. Joe's gaze followed her until it reached the family photos Judith had hung the evening before. He eyed a photo of Judith, thirty-some years younger and beaming at an equally happy David Otten, both of them dressed in their wedding finery.

_I'm still not sure I want him hanging on my wall… good thing he's out of the picture—so to speak… after we get our wedding pictures taken, I'll make sure our photo is bigger—maybe I'll hang two of them… Judith says the photos show I'm not making her dump her family and past… it's part of her strategy… the way she's laying it out, Derek and Cammie don't stand a chance—but then, you never know about lawyers…._

The thought of lawyers took him back to his worries.

_If Dworkin can't prove I'm right, and if I can't keep us safe in New York, then I need to think about finding some place where I can keep us safe—someplace that makes it too difficult for anyone to go after us… Italy, Switzerland… maybe, if I give Judith her choice, she won't be completely against the idea… I'd bring it up now and get it over with, but she's too wrapped up with fixing things with her son… maybe this evening… try and sell it as an extended honeymoon so it doesn't sound too much like us running away… that might work…._

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
15 August

Tutuola had called in at 10:15 a.m. to report that he and Sofarelli had a description of a possible suspect for their rape-murder and they were canvassing the neighborhood around the crime scene. Loudoun also had reported in, her call coming just before noon. Stabler and Lake, who were at Elliot's desk discussing take-out choices, listened as Olivia relayed her report

"Donna said their victim's roommate told them the vic had been out clubbing with her boyfriend last night. When Donna and John went to notify him of her murder, the boyfriend tried to slam the door in their face then he bolted for the fire escape. Donna caught him by the collar and Munch got in his face and started yelling about him making them work up a sweat on a hot summer day. According to Donna, it took all of ten seconds before the boyfriend broke down and confessed."

Elliot grinned so widely that Olivia could count his fillings. Chester said, "Smart man. From what I've seen, Munch could make concrete pilings confess."

"Can't disagree with that," Olivia replied. "They're sending the boyfriend back here. I'd said we'd sit on him while they get lunch and check out a few more Freds."

"Might as well," Elliot added. "It's not like they have to wrap things up by four today."

Olivia's cell chimed. As she picked it up, she gave her partner a frown.

_I know we're working sixteen hours today so shut up about it….  
_  
The call was from ADA Borgia. When it ended, Olivia caught Elliot's attention then mouthed the ADA's name. Elliot suggested Chester see what Chloe felt like eating before they ordered.

_Chester's muttering about making the gimp do all the work… I can't disagree with that, either, but I need Elliot right now…._

After Lake grabbed his crutches and left to find the shift admin, Elliot walked around their desk to Olivia's side.

"Borgia has the search warrant," she said, her voice kept too low to be overheard. "I'm supposed to go meet her there."

Elliot nodded to show he understood what she had left unsaid.

"I'll tell everyone you got an unexpected lunch invite. Want me to blame Dave?"

She ignored both the jibe and the blush warming her face.

"Just kidding," her partner said as Olivia locked her computer, "and good hunting. Call me if you need anything."

"I'll do that. You call me if anything breaks here."

Olivia checked out an official vehicle then she drove to the address Borgia had given her.

_205 East Sixteenth Street in Gramercy Park… I know this place—it used to be a church… now, it's condos… Borgia told me to meet her at 5C…._

She pulled into a No Parking space, checking the dash for the car's official placard before stopping the engine.

_Not that anyone would tow a Ford Taurus with city plates…._

The doorman let Olivia in after she identified herself.

_Whoever converted this place spent big bucks preserving the original interior and all the stained glass windows… I'll bet condos here go for at least two million… just doesn't seem fair—both Beale and Fontana living in places like this... makes a mockery of the saying 'virtue is its own reward….'_

She found the ADA and two men in inexpensive suits waiting for her outside 5C.

_Judging from the lack of custom tailoring to hide their holsters, I'm guessing the DA's office pays about as well as the NYPD…._

Borgia made the introductions.

_The Hispanic male with the husky voice is Hector Salazar… the bald beanpole is Ted Robinson… I'm guessing Robinson moved over to the DA's office when he retired and, judging from his voice, I'll bet Salazar was a medical… maybe a perp clothes-lined him and crushed his windpipe…._

Olivia greeted the two men then she asked about the warrant.

Borgia replied, "It's for the residence and any storage lockers in this building, but the doorman says Beale never requested a locker."

She handed Olivia a ring with two keys and a tag reading "5C." Olivia took the keys then she asked if everyone knew what they were looking for and why. Robinson answered her.

"We're looking for trophies, souvenirs, records of outings with his subordinates—anything to tie Bureau Chief Beale to possible sexual assault of his subordinates."

Salazar chimed in. "Young guys overpowered by a blimp like Beale—I'm having trouble with this."

"You ever work with him?" Robinson asked.

When Salazar shook his head, Robinson said, "He's pretty spry for a blimp. I've seen him sprint up the courthouse steps to catch up with a judge, and he doesn't even wheeze afterward. What with him using roofies on his victims, I can see it."

_I can see it, too… Elliot saw it… so did the DA and McCoy… it's one of the reasons we didn't take this case seriously when the DA first dumped it on us… what gets me is how Cragen doesn't seem to see it…._

Olivia nodded in response to Robinson then she pulled two gloves from her pocket and put them on. The two investigators followed suit.

"Okay," she said, "let's do it."

She unlocked the door and led the way into the apartment.

_Door opens into the dining room—kitchen on the left… marble floors and granite countertops… that Subzero fridge is bigger than my closet….  
_  
Two steps up led her to the living room where the arch supporting the building's vaulted roof had been left exposed, its stone curve matching the shape of the stained glass at the north side of the room.

_Floor's herringbone wood in at least three colors—if Beale rigged a hidey hole in the floor, it will be a bitch to find in that pattern… three different styles of end tables, red velvet loveseats, gold patterned arm chair, oval Persian rug in reds and browns… lamps and accessories in brushed aluminum and silver… some of this looks antique—family pieces or the pickings of a talented decorator?  
_  
Olivia stood in the center of the room and spun slowly, taking in the layout.

_Master bedroom east up another short set of steps… same red and brown décor… stairs south lead to a loft…._

She climbed halfway up the stairs, far enough to see that it was set up as a home office.

_Bookcases… laptop open on that mahogany desk… its screen is blank… art photographs and objects d'art… Beale goes in for the nude male form—no surprise there…._

From below, Olivia heard Robinson's voice.

"Geez—would you look at the size of that TV. It's bigger than my picture window."

"Must be family money," she heard Borgia respond. "No way he can afford this on what a bureau chief makes."

"Maybe it's from blackmail," Salazar suggested. "Like that bunch on the rat squad. I heard they were taking in almost half a mill a year."

Olivia leaned over the half-wall to peer down at the three.

"Closer to three hundred thousand," she told Salazar. "My partner worked that case."

"Either way," Robinson replied, "it buys a lot of stuff. Where you want us to start?"

Olivia took a moment to consider the floor plan.

"You two start in the kitchen and dining room. I'll tackle up here. Be sure to check for hidden safes or niches."

Both men nodded.

"You want us to ignore any high places?" asked Salazar.

"After all," his partner added., "it's not like the NBA scouted Beale."

Borgia snorted at Robinson's crack. Olivia gave it more smile than it was worth.

_Yes, Beale is short… and Robinson talks too much…._

"Unless you find a ladder or stepstool, I see no reason to check the ceiling trim."

"Gotcha."

The two investigators headed for the kitchen. Olivia turned her attention to the office. Footsteps on the stairs warned her that Borgia was joining her in the loft, but the ADA hung back by the top of the stairs, giving her space to work.

_Unlike Casey, who is always underfoot… I like it when lawyers know their place… wonder what Casey will say when she finds out we're investigating her boss? . Maybe I won't be around when she does find out….._

She wiggled the optical mouse by the laptop. The laptop's cooling fan began to whir then a browser window open to the NY Yankees website displayed on the screen.

_No password protection… usually a sign that the user is stupid or nothing incriminating is hidden on his computer, but the purloined letter method is still a good one…._

Olivia started the word processor and mail programs then ran through the list of files on the hard drive.

_Nothing labeled 'subordinate rape videos' or 'my attack on Mark Newman' or anything similar… no avi, mpg, wmv, or other video files… fine—make my job harder…._

"Are you finding anything?" Borgia asked her.

Olivia shook her head.

"Nothing obvious. Can we take this with us for the techs to work on?"

"Sure can," Borgia told her, "that and any PDAs or cell phones. I told Hector and Ted that, too."

Olivia powered the laptop down.

"Then I'll bag it up."

Once the laptop was sealed as evidence, Olivia began to search the desk.

_Every drawer's unlocked… nothing in them that's out of the ordinary…._

Olivia checked each drawer's bottom and back for false partitions. As she worked, she could hear a steady stream of comments coming from Robinson in the kitchen below.

_Geez… does he ever shut up?_

Borgia must have seen her expression because she said, "Hector hates working with Ted. He says the man wears his ears out."

"He better be more than talk," Olivia replied. "Evidence never comes when it's called."

Borgia gave her an emphatic nod. "I got you our best. If it's here, you guys will find it."

"Good."

After she had finished with the desk, Olivia started in on the book shelves, removing law books and novels to look for items hidden in them as well as items stashed behind them. Metal on metal and china on wood noises from the kitchen below told her the men were moving Beale's dishes and cookware in their own search.

_Check each book, check each shelf… examine everything large enough to hold a tape or DVD… look behind things for safes although, if we find one, I'll have to get someone in to open it…._

She looked at her watch.

_Almost three o'clock… it takes so much longer when we have to be neat about it….  
_  
Olivia reached for the next book on the shelf.

It's going to be a long afternoon… at least we're working inside….

Residence of Frederick Dover  
320 East Eighth Street #4B  
15 August 3:20 p.m.

Freddy Clapp, fifteenth of Munch's list of seventeen possibilities, had turned out to be an elderly black man barely five feet tall. Since the bus driver who may have seen Amy Choi and her killer was certain the man with the victim at least of medium height, Munch and Loudoun spent only a brief time talking to Mr. Clapp.

Now, they were stopped in front of a parking lot across from the residence of their sixteenth possibility. John opened the passenger side door but stayed in his seat, reluctant to leave the cool of the car for the sun-baked street.

_Bad day to wear a black suit, shirt, and tie… I'm a walking solar panel….  
_  
Loudoun, already having exited the car, asked him what the hold-up was.

_I also need to call Don—something I'd rather not do in front of Loudoun…._

"I'm talking my feet into another six-story climb," he replied. "I could use some Sherpas."

Donna sighed; from agreement or exasperation John could not tell.

"No got Sherpas," she told him, "but there's a coffee shop on the corner. How about I get us some soda or water before we tackle more stairs?"

John quickly agreed. As soon as Donna was out of hearing range, John called Cragen.

_Almost three-thirty—I'm a little early… it's ringing….  
_  
On the fourth ring, Cragen answered.

"It's John," John told him. "What's the score?"

_Meaning either the game or with Beale…._

Crowd noise almost drowned Don's answer.

"Orioles ahead three to zip, top of the eighth. Just a sec…."

John heard his captain say something unintelligible…

_Probably telling Beale who's calling…._

… but his next words were clear.

"Other than that, everything's great here. You?"

John filled him in on the morning's rape-murder in the park and the status of the Choi investigation. He ended by saying he would call again around four-thirty. After pocketing his phone, John then exited the car and took a position across the street from Fred Dover's residence.

_Six-story walk-up… lots of repaired cracks in its façade… fire escape on the front—probably off the main room—no one wants a bedroom over the street… single door entrance with six steps up… intercom entry system… I'd rather surprise Dover… spring Amy Choi's name on him and see how he reacts… hard to do if I have to tell him through a speaker why we're visiting him…._

Just then, the door opened to let a stout woman in a blue muumuu and a straw hat back her way through the entrance. John sprinted across the street, intending to help by holding the door for the woman then slipping inside after his good deed. A sharp glare stopped him at the base of the stairs.

"Forget it," the woman snapped at him. "I don't let anyone in for any reason."

Munch slid his badge case from his pocket and held it open for her to see.

"I'm a police detective, Ma'am."

The woman let the door close behind her.

"Right—and I'm a dancer at the _Folies Bergère_. Now, move aside. I have places to go."

John kept his badge and ID card out for her to examine.

_C'mon… how about some cooperation—or do you want to see me die of heat prostration right here on the sidewalk?_

"I'm with Special Victims," he told her, biting back the complaint. "I'm here to speak with one of your neighbors who may have information about an ongoing investigation."

The woman folded her arms and stared down her nose at him.

"Who?"

"Frederick Dover," John replied. "I'm hoping he remembers a murder that was committed a few blocks from here eleven years ago."

The woman kept her glare pinned on John while she considered the info.

"Dover might," she finally said. "He was here when I moved in nine years ago. All right—I'll let you in."

She fished in the pocket of her muumuu and got out a ring of keys. Still keeping her eye on Munch, she unlocked the door.

"Dover should be home," she told him as he wedged himself onto the stoop next to her to keep the door from locking again. "I think I saw him heading upstairs when I left my place. Looked like he had his grand-daughter with him."

The sun beating down on the back of John's neck suddenly went chill.

"His grand-daughter?"

"Yeah—cute little Chinese girl. Glad my kids didn't try marrying foreigners. I don't hold with such."

With that said, the woman pushed past Munch and made her way down the steps to the street. Munch watched her nod once at Loudoun as they passed each other one door down.

"Here's your water," Donna said as she joined Munch on the stoop. "What's wrong? You look even paler than usual."

John pushed the door wide and shooed Loudoun into the vestibule, letting the door swing shut behind them.

"According to the woman who just left," he told her, "Dover's upstairs with a 'little Chinese girl,' and I've got a very bad feeling about it."

Yankee Stadium  
15 August

Cragen and Beale were seated in Field Box 39H, seats 3 & 4, right over the Yankee dugout.

_Couldn't ask for better seats… but I'm too busy pretending to enjoy the afternoon to really enjoy it… and boy, I wish I'd turned down that hotdog… Beale claimed I'd jinx things if I didn't eat it—and, to prove I'm a talentless doormat who can't wipe his own butt without Beale's assistance, I ate the damn thing… wonder what the fine is for barfing on the Yankees dugout?_

When Munch's call came, _Baltimore's Aubrey Huff had just struck out swinging, making it two out in the eighth for the Orioles. Don was reciting the score for John when Beale leaned closer._

"Who's that?" he asked with a nod at Don's phone.

The question made Don want to hunch over his phone and protect it.

_Like a kid whose security blanket is being threatened…._

"Munch," he replied. "He asked about the score."

Beale pulled back, his lips pursed in disgust.

"Tell the fruitcake we're about to whip Oriole ass."

"Yeah," Don replied, "right."

_I've just watched seven innings of Yankee flyballs, singles and walks… can't win the game if that's all we got…._

Don ignored Beale's request as he listened to John's update and his promise to call again around four-thirty.

_We should be on the train by then… maybe even at my car… next will be dinner… I'm still trying to figure out if anything comes after that… but I can't—not for certain… maybe I'm wrong… still, I'm glad John's checking on me…._

He pocketed his phone then turned his attention back to the game.

_Whatever happens, I think I'm safe until after we've eaten…._

Residence of Frederick Dover  
320 East Eighth Street #6B  
15 August

Donna set the two water bottles on the edge of the stairs then she unfastened the strap on her holster.

"How do you want to handle this?" she asked. "Call for backup or go in ourselves?"

John glanced up the stairs as he thought.

_Going through his door with full ESU support is a bad idea if the girl really is his grand-daughter… a traumatized kid is great headline material—lawsuit and suspension material, too… we can knock on Dover's door, but we don't have cause to push our way in—I can hear Casey laughing at a claim of 'exigent circumstances' based on the assumed ethnicity of the supposed grand-daughter… which leaves following our original plan—talking to Dover about Amy Choi and watching his reactions… if the girl is his relative, then Dover has no reason to lie… if she's his prey, then he has years of experience in lying… we'll leave empty-handed—giving him the opportunity to run… or kill his victim and run…._

He grimaced at the lack of good choices.

"Either way," he told Loudoun, "leaves us in deep shit with the brass if we're wrong. We need to find out if the girl really is Dover's grand-daughter, and if she is visiting him willingly."

"So," Donna asked, "do we knock on some doors and find out what Dover's neighbors know about him and his kin?"

It was a reasonable suggestion….

_… if I weren't worried about what Dover might be doing while we waste time canvassing… better if one of us distracts him while the other checks him out… I can get inside and chat him up, win his confidence—yeah, that's it… but I can't do it by being a cop…._

John glanced out to the sidewalk then up the stairs.

_No one around…._

"Watch the entrance," he told Loudoun. "Tell me if anyone starts coming in."

John then removed his suit jacket and quickly shrugged out of his shoulder holster.

"What the hell are you doing?" Donna asked.

He answered by handing her his jacket and holster with weapon. He then unfastened his silver tack and removed his tie, handing them both to his partner. While Loudoun fumbled with his things, John slid his cuffs from his belt and put them in his pants pocket with his badge case.

_I need to look like someone dropping in for a visit… casual and friendly, not official and armed to the teeth…._

John then loosed the collar and top buttons of his black shirt and removed his glasses to put them in his shirt pocket.

_I wish I had the Perv Jacket… nothing says 'Trust me—I diddle children same as you" like pastel plaid…._

Loudoun broke into his thoughts.

"I said, 'What the hell are you doing?'"

"I'm preparing to pay Dover a friendly visit," he told her. "I've just moved in and I need some advice: a good pizza joint, the nearest Laundromat, the best place to do my Aqualung imitation—the sort of info only the friendly neighborhood pedophile can tell me. I'll get Dover talking and, if he admits the girl is there for immoral purposes, then I'll arrest him. Now, if you'll—"

Loudoun interrupted him.

"What if she really is his grand-daughter?"

_Again with the questions…._

"Then I leave," John replied. "No harm, no foul."

Loudoun shifted her feet as though digging in to oppose Munch.

"And what if he gets creeped out and calls the precinct on you?"

"I won't let it get that far," he assured her. "Remember, I've done this before."

"And what if he pulls a weapon?" she demanded. "What if he takes a swing at you and you have to defend yourself?"

Munch felt his jaw drop open in shock at her question.

_What—you think I'm over the hill? You think I'm too feeble to defend myself? You inbred trailer-dwelling Appalachian bumpkin of a hillbilly… I'm big-city police, not some backwoods Mayberry hick like you… I was bringing in Charm City humps back when your parents were still in diapers—wait, I just proved her point…._

Without a word to further dignify Loudoun's question, John bent over and took a compact semi-auto from a holster strapped to his right ankle.

_Reaching this isn't as easy as it used to be… maybe pocket-carry is a better idea—not that I'm admitting it to Loudoun…._

"There," he said, holding the weapon out for her to inspect. "Satisfied?"

Loudoun glanced at the small nine-mil in his hand.

"Backup gun, check," she told him. "Now, get real. How am I supposed to know if something goes wrong—mental telepathy?"

John bit back the additional hick epithets he had ready to spew at Loudoun.

_Somewhere, hidden inside all her ageist condescension, is a good point… going solo is a risky proposition… I guess the city goat deserves some credit for reminding me….  
_  
He looked at his watch.

_She'll need at least thirty minutes to call for info and talk to the neighbors… I promised to call Don in forty-five… that should be plenty of time…._

"Tell you what," he countered, "if I'm not out in forty minutes, you knock on the door and ask Dover about the Choi murder. While you're at it, you can check on me and let me know what you found out about Dover's family."

"How?"

_Damn it, again with the questions….  
_  
"Loudoun, unless you have a better plan or unless you're certain Dover isn't up there molesting that girl, then it's time for you to shut up so we can both can do our jobs."

He glared at her until she nodded her assent.

"Good. Now, lock my things in the trunk and start checking out Dover. I'll see you at—"

John glanced at his watch again.

"— four-thirty."

He put his hand on the banister, using it to hurry his climb to the fourth floor. Below him, he heard the outer door swing open, then shut as Loudoun did as he had asked.

_Now, to get into my mind into perv mode… sly smile, knowing wink… if Dover responds, be ready to pretend we share a special bond… I really want to be wrong about this… I want Dover to wonder what the hell I'm doing and saying... I want that girl to be Dover's grandchild… but nothing in my life to-date lets me believe this will be that easy….  
_

SVU Squadroom  
15 August 3:45 p.m.

_I described our suspect to the detectives and officers canvassing at the scene, the sergeant at the Three-Four, the clerk in the Media Department… hopefully, she got it out in time to reach the evening shift… now, I'm telling Stabler, who's sitting with his feet up on his desk… he ain't working nothing… so much for him catching a big wave… no sign of Olivia… maybe she's out doing the heavy lifting for him…._

"We're looking for a male Hispanic," Fin told Elliot, "five-ten, two hundred pounds, around thirty years of age. Two of her neighbors saw the vic with a man fitting that description when she was last seen. Suspect was wearing blue jeans and a gray t-shirt with writing on it, maybe saying 'Abercrombie and Fitch,' and Reebok Classic Aces in black."

Elliot blinked at the last bit of info.

"Witnesses saw his sneakers but not his shirt?"

"Yeah. Shows what's important, don't it?"

Fin left Elliot to check on his own partner, who was at his desk entered a BOLO request for their suspect.

"How you doing?" he asked.

Couch tapped the Enter key on his keyboard then leaned back in his chair.

"That's the last of it," he replied. "With any luck, our guy will be picked up before we finish our overly late lunch."

Fin sneered at the overly hopeful wish.

"You're an optimist," he told Couch. "Did you call the deli?"

"Yep. Got your usual. Should be here in twenty minutes."

"Thanks."

Fin grabbed the day's sports section from his desk as he stood up.

"I'll be right back," he told Couch. "Don't eat my burger."

_Been needing to hit the can since we got back…._

The men's room was empty, unlike any other day at a quarter to four p.m.

_No one taking a leak before heading home… or after their commute here… one nice thing about the fifteenth… no one running down hallways late for the evening shift… Howie's crew isn't busting our asses 'cause we're still trying to get our shit done and they need the fax or the copier or some coffee… we got one of the bigger squadrooms in the house, but it's still too damn small when we're all in it…._

Fin was at the sink when the outer door swung open and Stabler entered. He paused on his way to the urinals to say, "Your food's here. Better get it before Couch does."

Fin thanked him as he dried his hands then he left the men's room. Outside, the main hall with its two lightwells was also empty.

_Except for that kid by the elevators… maybe twenty, my height, heavy-set, almost as dark but looks Middle Eastern… he's wearing a long tan cotton jacket… weather today is dry and hot… maybe homeless… maybe a junkie—damn, I hate dealing with junkies… he better be here for someone else…._

While Fin watched him, the young man took something out of his jacket pocket with his right hand and held it pressed against his abdomen.

_Lucky rabbit foot? Favorite crack pipe? Never can tell with junkies…._

The young man looked through the glass of the lightwell in front of the elevators toward the SVU squadroom. Fin followed his gaze.

_Don't see anyone… Lake and Sofarelli must of wandered off…._

The young man's head bobbed up and down once then he turned toward Fin and began to walk, his gaze still fixed on the squadroom as though he were homing in on it.

_Something not right with him… nervous people look around, jump around… scared of what might jump them… in a cop shop, a junkie should be acting like we're gonna cuff him and take his stash… not this guy… he's staring straight at the squadroom and he's walking determined-like…._

As the young man approached the gap between the two lightwells, Fin unfolded his sports section and held it before him as though he were reading it.

_Let's see what he does when I get near him…._

The young man did not so much as glance in Fin's direction.

_But the kid's sweating… scared and determined… got something in his hand… something small that he's really hanging onto… something important to him… something with two wires running to inside his coat….  
_  
Fin quickened his pace, keeping his nose aimed at the paper open before him, his eyes focused on the two wires. His brain raced through possibilities, stopping at a memory of an explosives training lecture at Fort Benning.

_Wires mean detonator… detonator means bomb… if he's holding it, it's a deadman switch—goes 'boom' if we kill him or he releases it…._

Memories of the devastation Fin had seen in Somalia from explosions and that same destruction in his own squadroom steeled Fin's nerve.

_I gotta stop him…._

The young man begin his turn toward SVU's entrance. His attention was fixed on the squadroom door, and he took no notice of Fin as the detective drew even with him. In one fluid move, Fin dropped the newspaper then dove for the man's hand.

_Grab tight… keep holding tight….  
_  
He got his hands wrapped around the man's grip then Fin swung to his left, driving the man into the solid wall of the hallway. The bomber tried to pull his arm free; Fin dug his elbow between his ribs and forearm, trapping the man's arm against Fin's side. This brought their faces together, close enough for Fin to count the blood vessels in the bomber's startled eyes, close enough to feel the hard shapes of plastic explosives under the tan coat.

_Shit—it is a bomb… shit… gotta keep him calm… get him to cooperate…._

Fin sucked in a deep breath.

_Gotta sound calm to do keep him calm… don't want to scare him into fighting me…._

"It don't have to go like this," Fin told the young man "Our bomb squad can get that off you—they're good that way. You can walk out of here safe. Just—"

The man's eyes narrowed and his mouth curved into a snarl. Guttural curses poured from his lips as he planted his feet and tried to jerk free of Fin's grasp. Fin tightened his grip and stepped in the direction of the jerk, keeping his body pressed against the man's arm.

_No way I'm letting go…._

Finding himself still pinned, the man raised his left hand and brought it, fingers curved and rigid, down at Fin's face. Fin ducked his head, but felt nails rake across his ear.

"Hey," he yelled, his voice muffled by his position, "I'm trying to keep you alive."

Another blow, this time with a closed fist, landed on Fin's shoulder. A third caught him in his ear and made his head ring.

_Fuck it, I gave you your chance…._

"Ten-thirteen, ten-thirteen," he shouted, knowing the ten-code would alert anyone in hearing distance. "Got a suicide bomber—need assistance!"

He listened over the bomber's curses and his own pulse pounding, but no one responded. The man reacted by flailing at Fin's head with his fist then he switched to body shots to Fin's stomach. The detective butted his head against the man's neck, but the blows continued, making his knees wobble from nausea and pain.

"Ten-thirteen," Fin screamed. "Somebody shoot this fucker. Get him in the head., not the bomb. Head shot—head shot!"

_Kill him… kill him before he knocks me loose….  
_


	25. Bomb: Part One

I'm presenting events in chronological order. As always, this story does not accurately reflect actual NYPD policies and procedures. Everything has been tailored to fit SVU canon and the needs of this story. Since this spins off after "RAW", there are no murderous Tutuola nephews in this AU.

John Blackmun was the name Munch used when undercover at the sex tourism travel agency in the season four episode "Angels."

_Shave and a haircut—two bits _knock_:_ Duh-da-da-duh-duh... duh-duh....

Willy Loman: main character in the Arthur Miller play "Death of a Salesman."

PBR: Pabst Blue Ribbon beer

_Wolla!_ Voila!

Renault: Inspector Renault is the precinct commander. Yes, I took the name from "Casablanca."

Intel: the NYPD Intelligence Division handles terrorism in NYC

Just about everyone curses in this one. Stress does that to people. Section #1 contains a not very graphic description of oral sex. Section #2 contains graphic descriptions of gunshot wounds and death.

Residence of Frederick Dover  
320 East Eighth Street #6B  
15 August (Sunday) 4:03 p.m.

Munch rapped on Dover's door.

_It would save me a lot of effort if pedophiles had a secret knock… 'Shave and a haircut—I like kids…' Now, to put aside my usual debonair confidence and sell the hell out of this to Dover… think Willy Loman, but successful…._

The man who answered John's opened the door only as far as its chain would stretch.

_Early fifties, pale blue eyes, weathered skin, my height, call his weight one-eighty… dressed in a blue cotton work shirt and jeans—both professionally pressed… Mr. and Mrs. Choi did not recognize his photo so he doesn't take his clothes to them…._

John tried to see past Dover into his apartment.

_White walls and woodwork… hardwood floors… bathroom behind him… can't see anyone or anything else…._

Dover stared with narrowed eyes through the gap left by the chain.

"Yes?"

Munch smiled brightly.

"Hi, I'm John Blackmun. I just moved into the neighborhood and I spotted you outside with your… ah… grand-daughter."

Dover's grip on the door tightened.

"My grand-daughter?"

John ignored the suspicion in his voice and expression.

"Yes, your grand-daughter. She's truly lovely—a real beauty. You're a lucky man to have a girl like her in your life."

_Lay it on a bit thick… use terminology that can be taken both sexually and grand-fatherly… let him decide how to take it…._

For an instant, Dover's gaze shifted to his left.

_The girl is in that direction…._

When he returned his attention to Munch, his suspicion had been ratcheted up several notches.

"What you mean by that?"

_Try to look affable and trustworthy…._

John widened both his smile and his eyes.

"I saw you with her and I thought to myself, 'There's a man who knows how thrilling a young girl can be, and who knows where the best places are to find that thrill."

_If you're a pedophile, I've just laid it out plain as day… if not, you should be confused or repulsed…._

"And where would that be?" Dover asked.

"Oh, I don't know," John said, pitching his voice lower as though he were sharing a secret. "Perhaps the princess section of the Disney store, or the balance beam competition at a gymnastic meet, or maybe the ice rink while the junior figure skaters are practicing?"

He noticed how Dover's expression softened at the mention of skating.

_I must have struck gold…._

"Those little girls twirling around the rink in their immaculate white skates," John elaborated, enunciating every consonant in the long adjective, "and their bright-colored outfits with the short, frilly skirts."

Dover's lips parted and his eyes went dark.

"And the tights," he replied, his own voice gone husky, "the way they shimmer on their thighs as they skate by me."

John nodded his head. "Oh, yes—I know exactly what you mean."

_You sick fuck…._

Dover stood there a moment longer, enjoying the revelry John had spun for him, then he shook it off as his suspicion returned.

"Can you prove you're who you say you are?" he asked.

John's chuckle was not faked.

_Oh, I most certainly can… been carrying that proof around since 2002…._

He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out his wallet.

_Right here… stashed behind my authentic driver's license… one department-issue fake ID for John Blackmun of Baltimore, Maryland… Cragen asked for it back a couple times, but I kept putting him off until he finally dropped it… one never knows when one might need to hide from the right-wing establishment…._

John held the fake ID where Dover could examine the excellent work done by the NYPD's Tech Services. Dover scowled at it for a moment then he glared back at John's face.

"How do I know you're not a cop?"

John peered at him through the narrow opening.

"Do I look young enough to be a cop? Do I look that clean-cut and stupid?"

_Just the right amount of sarcasm and he should buy it…._

Dover eyed him a moment longer then he shook his head.

"No," he told John, "but I had to ask."

He then undid the door's chain and opened the door. John wasted no time stepping into the apartment.

_Main room and kitchen to my left… clean and tidy with cheap furniture… closed door to my right—has to be the bedroom… faint sounds of canned laughter coming through the door… I'll bet his 'grand-daughter' is in there watching TV.… _

"I'm Fred Dover," the man said as he held out his right hand.

John accepted the offered hand with a grin.

"Good to meet you, Fred. You lived in New York long?"

"All my life right here in this neighborhood," Dover replied. "You said you'd just moved here?"

John nodded. "From Baltimore. Charm City gave me a very nice pension when I retired so I decided to try the Big Apple. I couldn't see the sense in moving to a fifty-five and over community down south."

Dover nodded. "Gotcha on that one. You want a beer or something?"

John accepted with unfeigned pleasure.

_I'm in… now, to find out more about his perversion preferences…._

After they both were seated, Dover on the sofa with his back to the windows, John in a low armchair set along the wall, and after both had taken a swig of their PBRs, John picked up the conversation.

"What do you do for a living, Fred—and may I call you Fred?"

"Sure," Dover replied, "might as well. I'm a outboard motor mechanic at Hudson Landing; it's a marina over in New Jersey."

_Working outdoors on the water explains his skin and hands…._

The shudder that ran through John was not faked.

"Just looking at ship paintings makes me seasick."

"Me, I hate the water," Dover told him, "but I like the summer sailing classes. Lots of kids, lots of girls."

John smiled appreciatively.

_Time to push him…._

"Ah, yes—girls. I gather you like them Asian?"

Dover smiled back.

"Yeah, when I can swing it. Their parents keep 'em on a tight leash. It's like they know what their daughters really want to do when they aren't watching them."

Dover took another swig of his beer.

"How about you, John?"

_I like them tall, red-haired, and much, much older than six, you twisted child-raper…._

"I like them young and dark," he lied. "Charm City was perfect; two-thirds of the population was the right color."

"Got any pictures?"

"Sure."

John reached again for his wallet.

_This is another test… a normal man wouldn't be carrying photos of children not related to him… good thing I'm not normal—no, wait… good thing I know how to trap my prey…._

Dover examined the three photos John handled him.

_Cara, Nila, and one of the photos that Dill doctored up for our vitiligo girl…._

"Sweet, very sweet. How'd you meet them?"

"I volunteered at the children's museum, and with the city's after-school reading program."

"What about background checks?"

John laughed. "I started volunteering long before anyone got paranoid about men being with children. By the time they instituted background checks, I was so trusted, no one even asked."

Dover nodded his approval.

"Yeah," he said, "it's gotten so bad, we can't even look at a girl without some teacher or parent freaking."

John put his beer to his lips.

_Good thing Dover handed me a can… he can't see I'm not really drinking… and hooray for me—I got a 'we' out of him… we're best buds now…._

"What about you, Fred? You volunteer anywhere?"

Dover shook his head.

"Naw, I'm not good at that shit. I got a couple friends who work for the schools—Harry's a PE teacher and Pete's a janitor. They look out for girls I might enjoy, and I find them kids in the sailing classes—you know, kids with single moms that work long hours and get left alone a lot."

"A support group," John said approvingly. "Good idea—the more kindred spirits on the lookout, the better the chances of finding that perfect someone."

_Looks like we get to take three of you off the streets—damn, this just gets better and better…._

"Yeah. I get them the kids' names and addresses and descriptions—I know what both of them likes. Then, they met up with the kids and make friends with them. You know how it goes after that."

"I certainly do. Is that how you met your current, through your friends?"

Dover nodded.

"Pete, he found her for me. Her mother's not married and she works for some t-shirt company in the Garment District so Julie's a latchkey kid. I spent time in Hong Kong with the Navy, so I know some Cantonese. I gave Jing Wei some crap about how the wife I brought back from China died before we could have kids and how much I miss her. That and some money to help with the rent got me in good with her. A few dates and some more bull and _wolla—_I'm now her 'fiancé' and I get to baby-sit Julie while Jing Wei goes to work."

Behind his smile, John choked back bile.

_So, you found some overworked, over-stressed young woman and used her to get at her daughter… you vile sack of shit…._

"So, is that what you were doing when I saw you and Julie?" he asked. "Taking her home from your…."

John paused to leer at Dover.

"… babysitting?"

Dover's gaze shifted its focus to John's face. John watched as he seemed to search for something in John's expression.

_I'm being weighed… I've passed every test up to now, but something else is coming… I know he has Julie here in his bedroom, but he doesn't know I know…._

While Dover considered whatever was on his mind, John glanced at the room's furnishings.

_Not much here… another chair, a glass coffee table… black lacquer entertainment unit… lots of kid movies on the shelves… clock on the DVR reads 4:23… Loudoun will be here in seven minutes… be great if I had Dover ready to transport when she gets here…._

Dover's voice brought John's attention back to the pedophile.

"You said you like them black. You ever try yellow?"

John hid his sudden urge to vomit behind a slow grin.

"A couple of times," he replied. "You have something in mind?"

"Well…."

Dover drew out the syllable as though using it as a lure.

"I wasn't taking Julie home when you saw us. I was bringing her back here with me. Her mom is working the evening shift; so long as I have Julie home and in bed before she gets home, I'm golden."

He then set his empty bottle on the coffee table.

"My darling's gotten the hang of it now," he told John. "She keeps her teeth outta the way and when she strokes my balls—hell, ain't nothing like it. Trouble is, I also like watching, but Harry and Pete are into boys and that's not my thing. So…."

John raised one eyebrow to signal his interest.

"I think I know where you're going with this…."

_Head-first into our holding cell as fast as I can throw you …._

Dover then stood up and waved his hand at the closed bedroom door.

"How about I watch you and Julie? I promise—you won't be disappointed."

Seventh Floor  
Sixteenth Precinct  
15 August 4:05 p.m.

Elliot pushed the restroom door open just as Fin was shouting, "Head shot—head shot!"

_What the hell?_

He rounded the corner to see Fin with his hands wrapped around the right hand of a young man in a tan coat. The man was yelling unintelligibly as he drove his left fist into Fin's abdomen, too intent on hurting the detective to notice Stabler's arrival

Elliot ran over to separate the two men.

"No!" Fin shouted. "Bomb—head shot! Do it!""

At the word "bomb," Elliot's sight tunneled in on the two men. The man's arm connected again with stomach, Fin grimacing from pain, droplets of sweat flying from his face as he bent double from the blow, all in the time it took Ellot to draw his Glock. He then took one step forward as the man, his attention focused on Fin's grip on his hand, twisted his arm in an effort to pull himself free.

"Fin, stay down!"

Startled by the new voice, the bomber raised his head. His dark eyes widened and he froze with shock.

_Now!_

Elliot aimed at the center of the man's forehead and pulled the trigger. Muzzle blast filled the hall as blood spattered back from the entry, freckling Elliot's hand and wrist. More red sprayed the wall by the bomber's left ear, staining the plaster above Fin. The man's expression went slack as the light faded from eyes still fixed on Elliot.

_Oh, God…. _

The man's right arm, its hand held firmly in Fin's grasp, went limp, and his head drooped forward as neck muscles went flaccid. Elliot's stomach lurched and bile filled his mouth.

_Oh, God…._

Training kicked in, impelling Elliot to take his finger from the trigger then holster his weapon. Next to him, Fin drew a long, rough breath as he straightened from his tuck. He shied away from the gore on the wall, and his nose crinkled at the sudden stench of urine released by the body as death relaxed its muscles. Elliot saw his lips move, but the ringing in his ears blocked some of Fin's words.

"—anks. Almost lost—"

Rapid footsteps and shouting, the sound of everyone on the floor hurrying their way, drowned the rest of Fin's speech. Elliot raised a hand to ward off the approaching crowd.

"Stay back," he shouted. "Bomb!"

Everyone halted just as the body began a slow slide along the wall away Fin.

"Elliot!"

Before Fin could finish his name, Elliot pinned the body to the wall by slamming his right hand against its chest. He then shifted to a two-hand grip on the body's upper arms.

"Stabler, did you say 'bomb'?"

The question came from Lieutenant Crenshaw from Robbery. Elliot turned his head to see the lieu and a group of detectives and other personnel, Lake and Sofarelli included, clustered ten feet from Elliot and Fin.

"Yeah," he replied. "Under this guy's coat. Fin's got the detonator."

"Is it live?" asked Crenshaw.

Fin's voice shook as he answered.

"I ain't letting go to find out."

The crowd, Lake and Sofarelli excepted, began to edge away as Crenshaw begin to bark commands.

"Jenner, call Renault's office and have this building evacuated. Have them get the bomb squad here pronto. Piazza, get our unit shut down. You—Sofarelli? Same for yours. Taylor, Dunleavey, Marston—get to the elevators and stairs and keep the lookie-loos away from here. Hessler, you head up to the eighth…."

Footsteps and voices receded into the distance as people scrambled to comply with the lieutenant's orders. Only Lake remained; he approached the two detectives gingerly, sliding one crutch forward at a time until he was an arm's length from Elliot. He stood there, his weight on his good leg as though poised to pivot and run, then he licked his lips with a quick, nervous motion.

"You can't hold that body forever," he said to Elliot. "How about I help you and Fin get comfortable?"

"Comfortable?" Fin choked out the word. "You gonna bring us the couch from the lounge?"

"Right," Chester said with a glance at his crutches, "but I could give you a hand down then maybe a box or something to rest your arm on."

"That'd work," Fin told him. "I don't think I can stand much longer."

Chester's lips went pale and his gaze shifted to the far end of the hall.

_Yeah, I wish like hell I was there, too… don't take too long wishing—Fin's legs are starting to shake…._

"I'll get you under your arms," Chester said, "and lower you down."

Fin nodded. Without another word. Chester leaned his crutches against the lightwell then he limped around Elliot to stand behind Fin. He planted his left hand on the wall by the blood splatter then he gingerly stretched his right arm under Fin's and wrapped it around his chest. For a moment, the three men stood still, their eyes all focused on Fin's hands wrapped around the detonator and the wires leading to the man's chest.

_Just don't knock his hands loose…._

"Okay," Elliot said, "on the count of three: one, two—"

On "three," he loosened his grip and began a slow squat, guiding the body as gravity took it to the floor. Next to Elliot, Fin leaned back, using Lake's chest for support to help him drop slowly to his knees. Chester leaned forward, holding Fin upright and steady until Fin was kneeling on the linoleum.

"You want to sit?" Elliot asked.

Fin's head bobbed.

"Yeah. Can you lean him this way?"

"Sure thing."

Elliot slid the body's torso to his left, giving Fin enough slack from the arm holding the switch to let Fin get his butt on the floor with his legs crossed in front of him. Fin then lowered his arms until his elbows were resting on his thighs and his two clasped hands on his crossed ankles. He then sagged against the wall.

"You good?" Chester asked.

"I'm good," Fin replied.

Chester eyed Elliot and said, "Your turn."

Elliot let go with his left hand then he adjusted the body until it was stable, its legs splayed out and straddling Elliot. He then duplicated Fin's position on the floor. This left him seated between the dead bomber's legs with his right hand clutching the lapel of the tan coat to keep the body from falling over.

"I'm good, too," he told Chester.

"Good. I'm getting go now."

Chester released his hold on Fin then straightened with a crack of the cartilage of his injured knee.

"I'll be right back," he told them. "Don't go anywhere."

Chester turned towards the SV squadroom. Ignoring the muted curses Fin sent after him, he left them.

"'Don't go anywhere,'" Fin groused. "Lake think I'm gonna drag this piece of shit around with me?"

Elliot let him complain without comment.

_Better Fin talk it out—can't do anything else right now… the way he's hunched over and sweating, I know it's more than nerves—Fin's hurting… bomb squad better not drag their asses getting here…._

He aimed his gaze at his feet, trying to avoid the sight of the dead man before him. Random thoughts raced through his brain as he tried to process the past few minutes.

_A bomb—a suicide bomb… what the fuck is a suicide bomber doing here? Fin… Fin did the right thing grabbing like that… and me dropping him… hasn't hit me yet, but it will… nightmares, sleepless nights, the heebie-jeebies whenever I think about him staring at me… he's not staring at me now… not much of an entry wound… reddened hole, ring of soot around it… glad it's not the exit wound I'm looking at… not glad about the rest of this… I got to get word to Kathy—Olivia, too… tell them things will be okay… they will for me… I can walk away… Fin's the one stuck in—_

Fin cleared his throat, drawing Elliot from his thoughts.

"I saw this hump," Fin told him, "heading for the squadroom. I thought he was a junkie then I saw the deadman switch and I grabbed it. I think that catches you up."

Elliot nodded.

"So, Fin," he said, "Rangers to the rescue?"

Fin snorted his disgust at the friendly jibe.

"Had to," he shot back. "All the jarheads were busy shitting themselves in the can. Besides, I saw enough of this in Somalia. It don't belong here."

Elliot let the slur against the Marine Corps slide, knowing it was only tension relief.

"Amen to that," he replied. "Did this guy say who he was or why he was here?"

"Naw, just cussed at me in some Arab jibberish. Can you check his pockets?"

Elliot carefully slid his hand into the front pockets of the tan coat.

"Nothing here but lint," he said. "I'm going to try his pants."

"You be careful."

"I will."

_Trust me, Fin—I don't want to go 'boom' any more than you do…._

Elliot patted the front pockets of the dead man's pants.

_Doesn't feel like there's anything in there…._

He then carefully reached his left hand under the arm Fin was holding then he felt the rear pants pocket.

_Feels like wallet…._

Gingerly, he worked two fingers into the pocket and tugged until the wallet came free. When he had it clear of the body, Elliot flipped it open.

"It's a ID, not a license," he told Fin. "Says he's Faizullah Eshan, address in the West Village, and he's nineteen."

"Don't know him," Fin said.

"Me, either."

Elliot set the wallet on the floor by his right leg. Fin glanced at the man's face and swallowed hard.

"I got the better view," Elliot told him. "Sorry about that."

Fin muttered something about beating his sorry ass when everything was over then he asked, "Think Al-Qaeda's targeting precinct houses?"

"God, I hope not. Besides, why come up here? Why not stay downstairs where maybe he might take the building—"

Elliot cut of his sentence as Fin's eyes widened in horror.

_Yeah, don't think about buildings coming down… think about something else… like how it got quiet all of the sudden… and where's Lake? I thought he was coming back with something to put under Fin's hands…._

He looked around, but his hold on the corpse prevented him from turning around to see the squadroom. The hall on either side of him was empty.

"Where is everybody?" he asked.

Fin hitched one shoulder up to signal he did not know.

"Probably gone home to watch this on TV."

Elliot tipped his head to indicate the empty hall.

"To do that, we need reporters and cameras and all that shit."

Fin scowled then said, "If'n a reporter sticks a microphone in my face and asks how I'm feeling, you better be ready to run 'cause I'm letting this go and taking him with me."

Elliot snorted. "Sounds like justifiable homicide to me."

"Damn straight."

The sound of footsteps and a steady rumble of wheels on linoleum cut their banter short. The rumble was from an office chair pushed by Lake, its seat holding a box of copy paper. Couch was behind Chester with a stack of folded shirts in his arms and a navy blue terrycloth towel over his shoulder. Both walked past Elliot to stop next to Fin.

"This should make things better," Chester said, tapping a finger on the box. "Elliot, can you make room for this?"

Elliot sidled to his right then shifted the body's right leg closer to him. Chester let go of the chair and stepped away from it. Couch dropped the shirts on top of the box to make a cushion then he lifted it from the chair to the floor between Elliot and Fin.

"Elliot, how about you get that arm?" he asked, his voice shaking on the last two words. None of the older men commented on his show of nerves.

_Hell, I'd shake like an earthquake if I thought Fin wouldn't rag me about it…_

Elliot grabbed the sleeve of the coat and pulled up in unison with Fin's raising of his clasped hands. Couch slid the box under Fin's hands then positioned it so Fin could rest his elbows on the folded shirts.

With his arms now supported, Fin nodded his approval.

"That's better," he said. "Thanks."

"No problem."

Couch next took the towel from his shoulder. He draped it over the dead man's head, covering his face and both gunshot wounds.

"That should help, too," he told them.

"Where'd you get the shirts?" Fin asked.

"Sergeant Valeri. I think he raided the locker room. The towel's mine."

Elliot gave the towel a appreciative grin.

"It helps," he told Couch. "Thanks—both of you."

Couch smiled in response as he pulled the chair away from the detectives. Chester grabbed his crutches from where he had left them leaning and arranged them under his arms.

"Just so you know," Lake said, "Valeri has locked the elevator on the first floor until the bomb squad gets here. He said they're thirty minutes out."

Fin scowled at the news.

"We're supposed to wait for them to get pretty?"

"What's the matter, Fin?" Elliot asked. "Don't you like our company?"

Fin stuck his chin out at the corpse.

"It's him I'm objectin' to. Fucker needs a urinal cake."

Nervous chuckles from Chester and Couch greeted his complaint as Elliot asked Couch to pick up the wallet.

"Someone needs to check out that address," he said as Couch opened the wallet.

Couch's jaw dropped as he read the ID.

"Ehsan's the name of that girl whose mother and uncle tried to take her to Afghanistan against her will—the one we thought would be gang-raped."

Elliot focused on the towel-draped man before him.

_I remember… the same night that boy went missing and died from a fall… John and Couch got the girl off the plane at JFK… Judith and Couch's wife picked up the rest of the family before they 'disappeared…' but there wasn't any blow-back—not even an angry letter to the commissioner… this guy's here because of that?_

Fin responded first.

"You saying this fucker was coming for us?"

Couch nodded. "We stopped tribal justice from taking place so, yeah—looks like he was coming for us."

He pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pants pocket and put the wallet into it.

"I'll call Intel on my way downstairs," he said. "Hate to run, but…."

Couch spun on his heel. He had his phone out before he hit the stairs. The three detectives watched until he was out of sight then Chester cleared his throat.

"I'd better go, too," he said. "Is there anything else you need?"

Elliot met Fin's gaze. His scowl softened, a sign he was thinking the same thing as Elliot.

_How about you trade places with one of us? Neither of us will say that aloud… we'll joke, we'll bitch… but we won't admit we're scared…._

To cover his reaction, Elliot forced a smile.

"How about you stand us a round at McMullen's when this is over?"

A slight nod from Fin told Elliot he had hit the right tone for his reply. Above him, Chester also nodded.

"You got it."

"And can you call—"

"Couch updated Olivia, and he told Kathy you're keeping Fin company and will call her later."

Elliot's throat tightened.

_Good… I owe him for that…._

Unsure he could reply without choking up, Elliot nodded.

"I got a hold of Judith," Chester continued. "I also tried to reach Cragen, Munch, and Loudoun, but their phones went to voicemail."

His expression solemn, Lake turned his attention to Fin.

"Fin, you need anyone called?"

Elliot watched Fin's expression go blank.

_Lake doesn't know… Fin's son barely speaks to him… his ex-wife hates him… he's never mentioned any family…._

"You don't mind," Fin said, his voice softer than usual, "I'm asking Elliot to call. It's probably better if someone they know…."

Chester raised an eyebrow as Fin's words trailed off, but he let the matter lie.

"Okay then," he told them. "I'll see you guys downstairs."

He then headed for the stairs, leaving Elliot and Fin to await the arrival of the bomb squad.


	26. Bomb: Part Two

A/N: Amphigorey, etc: collections of works by Edward Gorey, illustrator and very dark humorist

Jacks: children's game played with a small rubber ball and tiny caltrops

Slapjack: simple two-player card game. Cards in the deck are turned over one by one. If a jack is turned up, the first player to slap the jack gets it and all the cards under it. When a player wins all the cards, the game is over.

As noted before, the ballgame described in this story was played on August 15th, 2007 in Real Life.

Alex Rodriquez' grand slam, mentioned in the story, occurred on April 7th, 2007 (Real Life)

The usual language warning applies here, too.

Residence of Andrew Beale  
205 East Sixteenth Street  
15 August 4:20 p.m.

The phone call from Sofarelli chilled Benson to her bones.

_When I heard Couch say 'bomb,' all of me turned to ice… I'd rather a bomb in my home than the squadroom…._

She listened intently as Couch ran through the details.

_Fin's got the detonator, Elliot's supporting him… okay, that means he can get the hell out of there, but Fin… Fin…._

Part of her brain noted the details of Couch's call, how he had performed the necessary evacuation protocols for the unit, how he had left messages for Cragen and the other detectives, how the precinct commander had summoned the bomb squad. Everything else was consumed with worry and fear for her colleague and her partner.

_It's good Elliot's there with Fin, but… the danger… in our house… our place…._

She asked Couch if she was needed back at the house, feeling both relief and shame when he said "No."

_I want to be there, and I don't… standing outside safe, not able to do anything… this doesn't make Beale go away… but, if we find anything here, Elliot's not available… it's better he's with Fin… better Fin's got one of us with him… shit—why us and why now?_

"Couch," she said, "Elliot is supposed to assist me with something later today. I hate to sound callous, but who's available?"

"_Looks like me,"_ he replied. _"Lake can handle things here. Munch or Loudoun are down in Alphabet City checking out Freds. Judith's available, too. I just talked to her so she knows what's up."  
_  
"Okay, I'll keep that in mind. Let me know…."

Couch cut her off with a tense _"I will"_ then hung up, saving her from voicing her fears for Fin. Olivia pocketed her phone without noticing she had.

_It's like that bomb is here next to me… the thought of Elliot, of Fin—no, not them… not them…._

"Trouble?"

The question came from Borgia. The ADA had been watching Benson's search of the bookcases from Beale's desk chair. Now, Borgia was next to her, peering at the detective with concern. Olivia drew in a deep breath before answering.

"Yes. Someone placed a explosive device outside our squadroom. The precinct house is being evacuated, and my partner and Fin Tutuola are babysitting the bomb until it's defused."

_Which sounds so much better than "if Fin's hands slip, we lose both of them…."  
_  
Borgia went pale at the news. Robinson's voice called up from the main room.

"Did you say 'bomb?'"

Olivia stepped over to the loft's railing.

"Yes, near the One-Six, but it's under control."

"Thank God," he replied. "Last thing we need in this city right now is people blowing up things—oh, and we've finished the kitchen. Want us to start in here or the bedroom."

Olivia considered the question, thankful no one had questioned her version of the matter.

_If I were Beale, I'd hid my trophies in an intimate place like the bedroom… I should search it myself… but, if I set Robinson and Salazar to work on the living room, they might decide to turn on the TV… just in case something goes wrong, I don't want to see or hear it… something better not go wrong… damn, I hope it doesn't…._

"Bedroom," she told him. "I'll get the living room; I'm almost finished up here." when I'm done."

She watched as Robinson waved Salazar toward the bedroom then Olivia turned back to face Borgia.

"Lying to my investigators, Detective?" the ADA asked.

"Okay, so I fibbed," Olivia admitted. "Better that than having them glued to the TV, too busy watching to search."

Olivia turned back to the last unchecked bookcase.

_Backing up my story with action…._

She squatted before the shelf and took a book from the second-to-last row.  
_  
Amphigorey…next to it Amphigorey, Too… then Amphigorey, Also… The Comic Mark Twain Reader… The Thurber Carnival… guy sorts his books by category and I'm in the humor section… wish I found it funny… nothing funny about where Elliot is… Elliot and Fin… nothing better happen to them….._

Residence of Joseph Fontana  
17 Battery Place  
Manhattan, NY  
15 August 3:55 p.m.

The meeting with Derek and Cammie Landis-Otten had gone better than Joe had expected. His apology had been accepted by Cammie, and Derek's worries about his mother had been addressed to his satisfaction.

However, after the good-byes had been said, and the front door had closed behind the departing couple, Judith spun around and marched to where Joe stood by the dining table. She stopped in front of him with her feet planted and her hands on her hips.

"Italy? Italy?"

Judith's voice rose in volume and pitch on each repetition.

"What makes you think I'm moving to Italy?"

_Geez… at least let me sit down before you start in on me…._

Joe leaned his weight on his walker and wished with all his might that Derek had not asked whether the men pursuing him might also go after his mother.

_I told Judith I would answer every question honestly… but I should of kept my mouth shut on that one…._

A scant three feet in front of him, Judith's glare was threatening to sear through his skin.

_Instead, I told Derek we weren't safe in New York—not after that stunt Judith pulled with the fake ambulance… I told him I thought we should spend some time far away from here, maybe in Italy or Switzerland—I did mention Switzerland… not that Judith paid any attention… all she heard was 'move' and 'Italy…._

For the next few minutes, Judith chewed Joe out.

_She let me have it with both barrels… first, I shouldn't make decisions for her… second, New York City is her home and she isn't going anywhere, especially to Italy… then she reloaded and let me have it again… and again…_

Just when he thought she might pass out from lack of oxygen, Judith finally paused for a breath. Joe seized his chance.

"The hell with moving to Italy," he snarled. "Let's stay here and wait for someone to shoot you."

He slid his walker forward until he could lean over Judith. She pulled back slightly, but kept her scowl aimed at him.

"What mean you by that?"

"I mean that stunt of yours Thursday is why this place is being triple-teamed by Crespo's thugs. They can't get at me so they're after you. That's why Bradley is driving you around—not because you wrecked your car, but so you don't end up bleeding out on the pavement."

Judith drew herself upright until she was nose-to-nose with him.

"I can take care of myself."

Joe leaned his weight on his left hand so he could gesture with his right.

_Anyone who can look at me and say that needs a good swift kick in the pants…._

"Fine," he said with a careless flip of his hand, "take care of yourself. We'll turn the wedding into a funeral, and save a bundle on the catering "

Judith gaped at him, her eyes so wide her lashes seems to hit her brows.

_Great, I finally got through to her…._

"Now," he said, "if you're ready to listen to reason—"

Her eyes narrowed as Judith's nostrils flared.

"If it means me moving to Italy, no—I'm not!"

From the kitchen counter came the sound of Judith's cell phone. Judith glared at Joe as though pinning him in place then she stomped around him to the kitchen to answer the call. Joe took the opportunity to beat a retreat for his bedroom, ignoring the curious looks he got from Wainwright and Bradley in the spare bedroom.

_No sense in me continuing this… might as well argue with a brick wall…._

He left the door open.

_In case she comes to her senses… except she just went from stunned to enraged in a blink of an eye… can a sane person do that?_

Joe roamed his bedroom, going from the bath to the closet to the exercise equipment to the closed blinds blocking access to the terrace, then he ran the circuit again, too agitated to settle anywhere. His thoughts also ran in circles with Judith at each center.

_Can't she see I'm trying to keep her safe? Everything I'm doing is for her—changing my life, clearing out my closet—I gave away some damn fine suits, shirts, and ties—not to mention that Brioni wool pea coat… I don't think Judith appreciates everything I'm doing for her… trying to keep her alive and safe… trying to make "Happily ever after" last more than a couple weeks… why can't she see that?_

Joe finally parked himself on his bed, stretching out on the bedspread and leaving his shoes on. He picked up a book from the nightstand then tossed it aside. From the living room, he heard Judith's phone ring again.

_Must be family checking in on the Derek and Cammie situation… fine, talk to them… beats having you yell at me for no reason…._

A sharp rap on the door frame brought him out of his thoughts. Joe snarled a "What?" and Wainwright came into the room.

"Detective Fontana," he said, "you probably should come out here."

"Why?"

Did Judith send you in to signal the start of Round Two?

"Because someone tried to blow up the Sixteenth Precinct house, and the attack appears to be related to one of Detective Otten's cases."

Joe slid from the bed and grabbed his walker.

"How do you know that?"

"It's on the news, and I listened in to Judith's end of two phone calls. Both sounded like they were from detectives she works with."

Joe hurried past the operative to the living room, where his flat screen TV was tuned to NY8 News. He paused by the dining table, transfixed by the shot of the street outside the One-Six. People streamed from the surrounding buildings; officers were directing them away from the precinct house. Joe could see patrol cars blocking the intersection two blocks north to divert traffic. Below the live shot, the news crawl explained the situation, mentioning that two NYPD detectives were inside with the unexploded bomb.

Judith stood in front of the screen, her hand still clutching her cell phone. Joe went to stand beside her.

_Her eyes are closed… I think she's praying… don't blame her—if some of our guys was in a mess like this, I'd be calling in favors from whomever I could reach…._

As though she sensed his approach, Judith took a sidestep toward Joe.

"They pack those bombs with ball bearings, tacks, nails," she whispered as though afraid her voice might set off an explosion. "It's not just the blast, but thousands of projectiles killing and maiming. I saw a suicide bomber take out a bus in Israel. Two of my friends were on that bus. I helped with—with…."

Her voice caught, keeping her from finishing her sentence. Joe reached behind her and gingerly rest his hand on her shoulder. She did not move away so Joe decided to say something neutral.

"Wainwright said this is tied to one of your cases."

Judith nodded.

"Couch said the bomber's name is Eshan," she told him. "End of June, we stopped a man named Nurzai Eshan from taking his niece back to Afghanistan to redeem their family's honor."

Joe raised an eyebrow.

"Judith, don't soft-soap things with me. I may not be SVU, but I've handled my share of rapes and family violence."

"Okay, call it rape and murder," she replied. "Nurzai's brother Admad was told to send his daughter home to pay for a mistake he had made. When he refused, his brother took things into his own hands. Admad and his children are in hiding, and his wife, who assisted with the abduction, was arrested along with Nurzai. Munch and Couch handled the arrest while I got the Eshan kids safely away from their relatives."

"So, Couch thinks this hump targeted your unit as revenge?"

Judith nodded. "Couch said our desk sergeant thought someone was scoping out the house. Looks like he was right."

"Did he say who's inside with the bomb?"

"Fin and Elliot."

_I've worked with Tutuola… he's good people… I hope he's okay… don't remember which one Elliot is…._

Judith turned her attention to the TV, which was showing an interview with Inspector Renault, the precinct commander.

_Renault's giving them the standard line—everything under control… nothing to worry about… bomb squad arriving shortly…._

"Our bomb guys are the best," Joe offered. "They'll defuse it in no time."

She bobbed her head up and down in agreement. The nod became a tremor that ran through her body.

"I have nightmares about bombs," she said. "I see the blood and the body parts and…."

Judith paused to draw a deep, shuddering breath.

"You'd think I could handle it, but…."

Joe saw her eyes start to fill with tears.

_Oh, hell… she's gonna cry…._

He put pressure on her shoulder, urging Judith to turn to face him. When she did, he pulled her close and let her sob into his shirt.

_So, getting gunned down doesn't faze her, but getting blown up does… sounds like leverage to me… sooner I get her and me away from here, the better…._

Residence of Frederick Dover  
320 East Eighth Street #6B  
15 August 4:23 p.m.

Dover stood up and waved his hand at the closed bedroom door.

"How about I watch you and Julie? I promise—you won't be disappointed."

Munch set his beer on the floor by his chair then he used the chair's arms to push himself to his feet.

_Note to self—stop sitting in low-slung furniture…._

His grin was genuine.

_Except Dover doesn't know why I'm grinning… even if he's not Amy's killer, I'm getting a child molester off the streets—him and his two 'friends…._

"How can I turn down such a generous offer?" he asked his host. "Please, lead the way."

Dover leered at him as he stood up.

"This way," he said as he led the way to the far end of his apartment. There, he opened the bedroom door a crack.

"Julie love," he called, "the Fredmeister's here and he brought a friend."

John clenched his teeth to keep from gagging.

_Please don't make me use a cutesy name for my penis…._

Dover swung the door open, giving Munch his first look inside.

_Narrow room barely wide enough for the double bed in it… no room to move if something goes wrong… shelves and a hanger rod behind the headboard… work shirts and pants on hangers… wall next to me has hooks for coats—only one in use… outer wall to my left has a window over the bed—curtains drawn—and a dresser at the foot of the bed… small TV with a cable connection—he's subjecting Julie to 'I Dream of Jeannie'… that should be a felony in and of itself…._

Julie, who was seated cross-legged in the center of the bed, looked to be around six. Long ponytails and thick bangs framed her face; baby blue shorts and a bright pink shirt covered her body. She stared solemnly at Dover with only a flick of her gaze toward John to show she knew he was there.

_Now, all he has to do is explicitly offer her to me for sex… I want it plain enough for even the most brain-dead judge to understand…._

Dover entered the room and stood by the dresser. John took a position in the doorway, blocking the only escape route. He leaned against the left door frame, knowing the casual posture also kept his right hand free to pull his weapon.

He watched Dover turn off the TV then beckon to the little girl.

"Honey, this is John. You and him are gonna make a movie for the Fredmeister."

Julie's expression went blank and her eyes lost what little sparkle they had. She shifted from cross-legged to kneeling then she shuffled on her knees to the corner of the bed nearest John.

_She's done this before, which means there's tapes of her being swapped around so other pervs can beat off to them… you scum-sucking shitstain…. _

John realized he was glaring his hatred at Dover. He quickly drew up the corners of his mouth.

_Look excited… think about how good it will feel to slam his head against the roof of the RMP taking him in…._

Dover opened the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out a small digital camcorder.

"You don't mind if I tape this?"

"Not at all," Munch said. "You planning to narrate?"

"Sure."

Dover pushed a few buttons on the recorder then he aimed it at Julie.

"This is Julie love," he said. "She's about to make my friend John very, very happy."

Dover then swung the recorder in Munch's direction.

"This is John. He's about to get the best Chinese blow job he's ever had."

_That's my cue…._

John straightened up and moved his hands towards his fly.

_Loudoun should be here any minute now… I'll have Dover cuffed and ready for transport… proof that I'm not old and in the way… if everything goes the way it should… something it rarely does…._

Instead of unzipping, he reached into his pants pockets.

_Badge case in my left… gun in my right… he's only four feet away… leaves me no margin if he tries anything… can't let him go for my gun or the door… or the girl… he outweighs me… he's younger… he does manual labor…._

The worst case scenario, John incapacitated or dead, the girl dead, Dover in the hall meeting an unsuspecting Loudoun with John's weapon in his hand, made John very mindful of the danger.

_Have to overawe him… act as though he has no choice… and be ready to shoot him if he goes for it… knowing I'll get hurt in the process… shit…._

john pulled his hands from his pockets, aiming his gun at Dover as he flipped the badge case open.

"NYPD," he shouting, hoping to shock Dover into submission. "Turn around and put your hands on that dresser—now!"

At the sight of the small semi-auto, Julie stiffened then threw herself backwards onto the pillows of the bed. From there, she slid into the narrow space between bed and wall where she curled into a ball and began to whimper.

At the same time, Dover jerked back against the dresser. He lowered the camera and glanced at John then at the hall behind him. As Julie hit the pillows, Dover charged forward, the camera swinging at the gun's muzzle to knock it out of his way.

John pulled the trigger just as the camera struck, followed immediately by Dover crashing into him. John fell backwards against the door frame then, unable to stop the fall, toppled back onto the floor of the hall. He saw his badge case go flying, that sight blocked by Dover's head as the pervert fell with him. A brilliant light filled his head and a huge weight hit his chest—then nothing.

Donna Loudoun was on the fourth floor landing when she heard the gunshot. She grabbed her phone and hit the speed dial button for Central Dispatch.

"Loudoun, Manhattan SVU," she said as she drew her weapon and ran up the stairs. "Badge number one-four-two-seven-two. Shots fired, location 320 East Eighth Street. Be advised, plainclothes detectives are on the scene at Apartment 6B."

Dispatch acknowledged as she ran up the last flight of stairs.

_That shot better not be somewhere else… I'll look like a fool checking on Munch while some citizen bleeds out on a floor below…._

She paused on the top step to check the hall. Dover's apartment was on her right. All four entrance doors on the hall were closed; no residents were peaking out to see what the noise was.

_Damn… just when I could use a finger pointing in the right direction…._

Weapon at the ready, shield case hanging from her neck, Loudoun pounded on Dover's door.

"NYPD. Need to talk to you."

No reply came so she tried the door knob. When it turned in her hand, Loudoun pushed on the door, but it swung an inch before hitting an obstruction, leaving a crack barely wide enough to look through.

_Oh, God…._

On the floor by the gap, she saw two motionless hands.

_Blue cuffs and sleeves, fingers curled as though clawing at the floor… can't tell whose or why…._

"Munch—you in there?"

There was no reply. In the quiet, she heard sirens coming closer, letting her know backup was approaching.

_Screw them—I don't have time…._

She holstered her weapon then she placed both her hands flat against the door by the edge below the door knob and pushed with all her might. When she had enough of a gap to get her foot between door and frame, she wedged her hip against the door and shoved her body against it.

The door gave enough to let her slip inside.

_Oh, God…._

The hands were attached to a male lying prone against the door, his arms above his head. Her partner also sprawled on the floor, supine under the male's legs as though the man had crawled over Munch to reach the door. Fresh blood smeared Munch's shirt and his slack-jawed face. Loudoun noted that his Glock lay across the entry, just inside the bathroom threshold; his badge was on the floor close to the bedroom door.

_Oh, God…._

Loudoun squatted at Munch's shoulder to check the pulse in his neck.

_It's there… steady, not strong… and he's breathing…._

She also checked the male.

_Nothing…._

Then she redialed Dispatch, telling them she had an officer down and unconscious, a young girl—possible victim, and a dead male suspect, and to send two buses, the ME, and CSU. While they acknowledged, she hefted the dead man's legs from her partner then felt again for his pulse.

_Still steady… good, because I need to see about the girl…._

Donna drew her weapon again, this time holding it low against her thigh while she scanned the room to her right and the bathroom before her. Seeing both rooms were clear, she carefully stepped over Munch to check the bedroom.

_There she is… on the floor against the far wall… trying to hide under the bedspread….._

She holstered her weapons then squatted by the foot of the bed.  
_  
_"I'm Detective Loudoun," she told the shape under the drape of the bedspread. "It's okay. You can come out now."

The fabric moved a bit then Donna saw a small hand grab its edge and lift it to uncover a young Asian girl. Donna glanced behind her, making sure her body blocked any view of the men in the hall.

"It's okay," she assured the little girl. "I'm here to take care of you. Can you tell me your name?"

The girl bobbed her head up and down.

"Julie," she whispered. "A man shot Fredmeister."

"I know," Donna replied. "That man is my partner. Hear those sirens? They're bringing more police officers and an ambulance. We're going to get you checked out then we'll take you back to your family."

Julie shrank back against the wall.

"No," she said, a sob choking her voice. "Mommy will yell at me. No, no, no—"

Donna rocked back on her heels.

_Damn, now what? I got to get her out of here—they're going to be mucking with Dover's body and I don't want her seeing any of that…._

"Okay," she said, "how about I carry you out to the couch? You can wait there for the paramedics then we'll talk about calling your mother."

Julie stared at the floor while she thought about it then she nodded. Donna crawled to her, squeezing through the narrow space between wall and bed. When she wrapped her arms around the child, Julie grabbed her around her neck and held on tightly.

Loudoun turned around as she stood, trying her best to keep Julie from seeing the body by the door as they past it.

_Damn place is one big room… good thing the kitchen wall block the entry from this end of the sofa….  
_  
She set Julie down and cautioned her to stay put then she returned to her partner.

_Still breathing… pulse okay… and I can hear people coming up the stairs…._

First through the door were two uniforms. Loudoun asked if either of them had children. When one admits to having two boys, she had him go sit with Julie. The other officer she set to marking the apartment as a crime scene.

_His neighbors will love coming home and finding yellow tape everywhere…._

She then went her partner, staying with him until paramedics arrived four minutes later. While they worked on Munch, she checked in with SVU. The call rang once then, after a pause, rang again until answered.

"Bronx SVU, Detective Rubio."

"What the hell?" she blurted. "Why am I talking to you?"

"_Because you called me."_

"No, I called Manhattan SVU. This is Detective Loudoun."

She heard a muffled voice repeating her name then Rubio returned to the phone.

_"People having been trying to reach you, Loudoun. Someone planted a bomb at the One-Six and it's been evacuated. We're handling your calls until the 'all-clear' sounds."_

Loudoun mentally kicked herself.

_That's what I get for ignoring my messages… and more uniforms and Julie's paramedics just arrived…._

"Okay, thanks."

She hung up on Rubio then she directed the paramedics to check out the little girl.

_A bomb… on top of everything else I'm dealing with… why the hell a bomb? Doesn't matter—think about the mess I have and not the mess someone else has….  
_  
Donna drew in a deep breath as she surveyed her crime scene.

_Okay, take care of Munch, the victim, the dead guy in that order… work the crime scene… and I have to check in with my unit… Olivia or Cragen at home, I guess…._

Having set her priorities, Donna turned to the paramedics working with Munch. They had his blood-soaked shirt open so she could see bruises on his sternum and ribs.

_And talk about pale skin… library paste has more color…._

"How's he doing?"

"We're waiting on a backboard and stretcher," the paramedic answered, "then we're transporting him. Blood pressure and pulse are good, but he's not responding to voice commands, but don't worry. We'll take good care of him."

Loudoun said "Thanks, guys," but she thought _Don't tell me not to worry—he looks too dead not to worry….  
_  
On her way to check again on Julie, she stopped by the bathroom to inspect Munch's Glock.

_Been fired… okay, so Dover rushed him and was shot—assuming that is Dover…._

"You," she snapped at an officer standing near the body. "Check for a wallet."

The second set of paramedics told her Julie was in good shape and did not need medical treatment. Donna sent them on their way and made a mental note to call Julie's mother after Olivia and Cragen.

The call to Olivia was short.

_She knew about the bomb—so why didn't she call me about it? She also told me to call Lake about finding someone to be with Munch… said Fin and Elliot are busy with the bomb squad or something… I'll get to that right after I call about Julie…._

Her call to Cragen went straight to voicemail. She left a detailed message.  
_  
And there's the stretcher for Munch… okay, he's good—at least, I hope he's good… now, to take care of Julie… get someone to the hospital to be with Munch… and figure out what the hell is going on, first here, and then at the house…._

Yankee Stadium  
15 August 4:50 p.m.

_Just thirty minutes ago, all these people were cheering like hundred dollar bills were raining down on them… Sandy Duncan's three-run homer in the ninth had tied the game… everyone thought we would win our first series against Baltimore this year…._

Don glanced around at the mass of dispirited fans trudging along the ramps toward the parking garage.

_And then Rivera allowed three runs in the tenth inning… no way could we recover from that… Yankees ended up losing 6-3…._

"We're still five games behind Boston," Beale groused. "The entire team should quit baseball and take up Jacks. Then, they might have a chance at winning."

"The way Rivera was handling that ball? Try Slapjack instead of Jacks."

Beale snorted his approval of Don's remark, as did several people walking nearby. Don chuckled ruefully then he reached into his pocket for his phone.

"Who are you calling?" Beale asked.

"No one," Don replied. "Just checking. No way I could hear it over the crowd noise."

_It buzzed several times… one I'm sure was John—that call I have to return… another is probably Olivia reporting in for shift-end… I'll check the rest—see if any are emergencies…._

As he pulled out his phone , someone close behind him bellowed, "Stop shoving, asshole!" A loud grunt followed the shout then Don heard the sound of scuffling. He turned to see what the problem was just as an older man sidestepped to avoid the tussle and lost his footing. Don grabbed the man's shirt and shoulder, hoping to stop his fall, but the man toppled sideways, taking Don with him to the concrete.

Don landed on his side and instinctively curled around the man, trying to protect him against the moving crowd. Above him, he heard yells of "Look out" and "Give 'em a hand" and "Watch your feet!" The crush of people around Don opened, and he saw hands reaching down to help him and the man back to their feet.

As soon as Don was upright, he checked his gear.

_Weapon, badge case, wallet, phone—shit…._

"I dropped my phone."

Several of the people near him began looking for it. Don glanced at the older man, who smiled with embarrassment at the commotion he had caused.

"I'm fine," he told Don. "Sorry about this."

Don waved off the apology and began to scan the concrete for his phone.

_Nothing but old gum, litter… all these people—someone could have picked it up or accidentally kicked it…._

A touch on his shoulder got Don's attention. It was Beale, who held in his other hand the mangled remains of Don's cell phone.

"This young man," Beale said as he indicated a boy around thirteen in a Yankees cap turned sideways on his head, "tried to rescue it, but some lout's foot got to it first."

Don stared at the wreckage.

Shit… how am I going to call John back? What if an emergency comes up?

He sighed before thanking the boy for returning his phone.

"S'okay," the boy said, "I mean, you tried to help that old guy so—"

He shrugged as though to say 'Sorry it didn't work out' then he walked away. Don pocketed the ruined phone.

_Well, at least no one will be using it to make prank calls to the Chief of Dees…_

"Andrew," he asked, "can I borrow yours?"

"I didn't bring mine," Beale told him. "Every time I do, some dumbass calls me just when the game gets exciting. Last April, one of my ADAs called about a case—mind you, this was a Saturday afternoon—and I missed A-Rod's grand slam, bottom of the ninth, that drove home Cano, Jeter and Abreu and won the game."

The rotund man tipped his head and looked thoughtful.

"Come to think of it—they were playing Baltimore that day, too. I guess what goes around, comes around, right?"

Before Don could respond, Beale continued, "If anything major comes up, your people will call your home, too. Hell, if it's a real emergency, they'll send a patrol car to your house."

He hooked his thumb toward the parking garage.

"So, come on. There's a couple of great steaks sitting in your fridge. Let's not make them a moment longer than we have to."

Don smiled ruefully as he fell into step besides Beale.

_He's right about contacting me… in a emergency, all the stops get pulled out… I'll call John when I get home… I don't expect anything to happen until after dinner's eaten… I'll be fine until then…._

Sixty-second Precinct  
Brooklyn, NY  
15 August 4:51 p.m.

The officer assisting at the precinct's desk hung up the phone before calling to the desk sergeant.

"Hey, Sarge—that was a Detective Lake from Manhattan SVU. Seems they can't reach their captain so they want us to send a RMP to his house to fetch him."

Desk Sergeant Frank Almeida caught himself before asking , "What the hell for?"

_Manhattan SVU is based at the One-Six… if he's out of reach, then he probably doesn't know about the bomb threat… and he's not going to learn anything from us…._

"Ignore that request," he told the officer. "I got word from on high not to disturb Captain Cragen today for any reason—no phone calls, no drive-bys, no nothing."

"But, Sarge," the officer protested. "If there's a bomb in his stationhouse, shouldn't he be told?"

"Sure," Almeida replied, "but not by you and not by me. Like I said, we got orders."

He turned his back the officer, ending the conversation.

_Yeah, those order came straight to me from the First Deputy Commissioner… when Balzano shits on you, you stand still and enjoy the downpour…._


	27. Bomb: Part Three

Author's Notes:

Vicks Vaporub mentholated salve used to mask odors (and clear stuffy noses and alleviate chest congestion if you're not a detective)

Teresa Randall: Fin's ex-wife

Kwazi: the name Fin gave his son at birth; his son later changed his name to Ken Randall—a double slap at Fin for being an absent father.

Minoxidil: a vasodilator medication known for its ability to slow or stop hair loss and promote hair regrowth; also known as Rogaine

Whodunit: not "whod-unit" but "Who-done-it"—mysteries

Verbatim: manufacturer of storage media, including blank DVDs

There is a language warning for this chapter (you'd cuss, too, if you were a character in this story) and a circumspect description of rape in the second section.

Seventh Floor  
Sixteenth Precinct  
15 August 4:45 p.m.

_Not gonna ask what time it is… not gonna ask how much longer till the bomb squad gets here… not gonna think about my hands slipping… my belly aching… that stab in my side every time I breathe… not gonna think about how good it feels having Elliot here with me… not gonna tell him, either…._

After running through the available options, Fin decided the only safe thing to think about was the smells coming from the dead bomber.

_Piss, blood, body funk—hope he smelled better alive, but I doubt it…._

Elliot's next comment showed his thoughts were taking a similar line.

"Man," he said, "I wish Couch had brought some air freshener along with that towel."

"Yeah," Fin replied. "I hate being this up close and personal with a body."

"I've got some Vicks in my desk drawer. Want me to go get it?"

Fin considered the question then shook his head.

"Naw, I've smelled worse."

Elliot's tight smile told Fin he knew exactly when and where.

_We both remember war's smells… gut-shot bodies rotting in the desert heat, village streets—more like dirt paths than streets—covered in garbage and dung, living cheek to jowl with men who haven't seen a bar of soap in weeks… and the food—man, how do the locals eat that crap?_

"How about some water?"

Elliot's question drew Fin's gaze to the detective.

_Don't like the way he's looking at me… I'm good—yeah, my gut aches and my fingers are starting to cramp… hope Stabler doesn't shit himself if I wiggle them a little… if he goes for water, he won't know I'm wiggling… and he'll be safe if I wiggle them too much…._

Fin swallowed as though his mouth really was parched.

"Yeah, some water would taste good right now."

Elliot checked the stability of the body against the wall before cautiously standing up.

"I'll be right back."

"Take your time," Fin replied. "I got all the company I need."

As soon as Elliot had rounded the corner of the lightwell, Fin shifted the position of his elbows on the box supporting them then he began to loosen his grip, one finger at a time.

_I can feel the button against the pad of my thumb… if I don't move that, I should be good… damn, that's better… only got to do this a little longer… just till the bomb squad takes care of this for me…._

By the time Elliot returned with Fin's mug, each of Fin's fingers had been stretched to relieved their cramping. Elliot resumed his seat by the body then held the mug to Fin's lips for him to sip. The cool water felt damn good going down. Fin drained the mug then nodded his thanks.

" 'course," he said, "I'd rather be drinking a beer at McMullen's."

Elliot set the mug by his feet.

"I think they have a strict no-bomb policy. Keeps the riff-raff out."

Fin snorted at the joke. When Elliot didn't continue the joshing, he leaned forward, trying to ease the hurt in his gut and side.

_Don't think about it… just think about keeping my hand on that button so nothing goes wrong… if my hands slip, Elliot will grab hold… can't let him do that… he's got kids… he's working things out with Kathy… they need him—_

Fin cut that line of thought off before he spent any time thinking how things were different for him.

_Think about something else… not the pain, not how many pieces I end up in if I let go… think about something else… like how much longer I got to do this? I don't want to ask, but not knowing is a killer…._

"You know what time it is?" he asked.

Elliot checked his watch.

"Quarter to five," he replied. "Bomb squad ought to be here soon."

"They'll need time to suit up after they get here," Fin said

"Maybe not. They know what they're facing here. I'll bet whoever gets stuck with this is already suited up."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

The two lapsed back into silence. Fin closed his eyes and drew in a deep, slow breath, stopping the moment the stab in his side kicked in.

_Gotta be a cracked rib…._

When he opened his eyes again, Fin saw that Elliot was staring him intently.

_I'm good… don't look at me like I'm not…._

"How about you do something to distract me?" he asked Stabler.

Elliot's expression went from concerned to puzzled.

"Distract you?"

"Yeah," Fin replied. "How about you keep me from thinking about us sitting here next to a dead dude with a bomb."

Elliot frowned at Fin.

_Go ahead—think I'm crazy… just do something besides staring at me…._

The frown shifted into a lopsided grin.

"How about I sing the Marine Corps hymn?"

Fin bit back an urge to retch.

_Anything's better than silence… except that…._

"Don't even think about opening your mouth," he told Stabler. "I got my fill of you singing that night at that Irish bar on Amsterdam. You and Howie, and Tatum and Lanigan from Queens SVU…."

Fin shuddered.

"What you did to 'Danny Boy' ought to be illegal."

Elliot peered at Fin then he sat back and shook his head.

"Are you sure? I don't remember singing."

"I wish I could say that. You was so bad, if'n you try singing the Marine Corps hymn, the commandant of the whole damn Corps gonna come up here and rip your vocal chords out for profaning that song."

Elliot opened his mouth as though to protest then he grinned.

"Sounds like a distraction to me—huh, Fin?"

_Yeah, it would be… good on you, Elliot…._

Fin scowled to hide his amusement.

"Well, it ain't gonna happen," he told Elliot, "because you ain't gonna sing. Now, talk about something—sports, a book you're reading, anything."

Elliot pinned his gaze on the wall above the dead bomber's head as though seriously considering a topic of conversation. After a few seconds, he looked back at Fin and asked, "Did you know Fontana likes poetry."

For a moment, Fin forgot about the smells and the deadman switch in his hands.

_That dickhead? Dirty limericks, maybe... .but poetry?_

"Naw, " he told Elliot, "you gotta be shitting me."

"Nope," Elliot replied, his solemn expression holding only a hint of a smile. "Fontana has an entire bookcase filled with poetry books. I even heard him quote a few verses—something about thunderstorms and oak trees."

Fin searched Elliot's face, but saw no sign of kidding.

_He ain't joking... Smugtana and poetry... so that's why Judith fell for him—under all that flash, he's a scholar...._

"Damn. Thought the only thing he read was fashion labels."

"Yeah, that was my reaction."

Fin tried to think of a reply.

_I got nothing... Munch once said knowing he was about to be hanged would concentrate his mind... he didn't say on what...._

He eyed the towel-draped head not three feet from his nose.

_I'm holding a bomb because this boy tried to kill us... because some fuckhead relative of his wanted his niece raped and killed, and we kept him from doing it… we were successful then… might not be with this…._

A sudden chill ran through his body. Fin stiffened against the shiver that accompanied it.

_That's why Elliot and me can't keep a conversation going... we both know I stand a good chance of dying... we're too concentrated on that fact... kinda hard not to think about what happens if my hands slip... if the bomb squad fucks up... it'll be quick, this close to the explosion... probably no time to feel anything... no time to think about what's happening... no time for a last word—yeah, like anyone wants to hear what I have to say…._

That thought brought a lump to Fin's throat. He swallowed against it.

_Kwazi might care... Teresa won't give a damn—I really messed up marring her, but she's the one who burned all the bridges after the divorce... but with my son... I knew better... having a daddy that don't care about his sons—me and Bólají, left behind like we was nothing to him... I knew what it felt like and I did it to Kwazi anyway... maybe I should say something... I told Lake I'd have Elliot handle it, but that was to shut Lake up... but, maybe, just in case anyone cares...._

Fin glanced sideways at Elliot, who had his attention fixed on something far down the hall as though giving Tutuola a semblance of privacy.

_Elliot's been under fire... seen men die in battle... he knows what to listen to and what to forget if I live though this... I can trust him, at least with some what I got...._

Fin drew in a long breath, ignoring the sharp pain as he did so.

"Elliot," he said, "if I don't walk out of here...."

Elliot jerked back to face Fin. He waited to see if Elliot would say something smartass. When nothing came, Fin continued.

"... I want Liv to be the one to tell Ken. She and him—there's a rapport there."

_One I never had with him...._

"She'll say the right things. She'll tell him I should of done better, and I'm sorry I didn't."

Elliot nodded. His solemn expression, with no hint of joshing or humor, told Fin that his friend would honor his requests.

"I also got a little brother—name's Bólají. He teaches at some progressive school out in Berkeley."

"California?"

"Yeah. Him and me, we haven't spoken much over the years."

_That's an understatement... we haven't said a word to each other since he moved out there... we don't agree on anything... he took after our dad... something I couldn't do—not ever.... _

"I want you to call him and tell him I don't regret the decisions I made, but I do regret the way they divided us."

Elliot nodded again.

"I can spell 'Tutuola'," he said, "but I'll need help with 'Bo-lah-gee'."

Fin spelled the name for him.

"One more thing," he told Elliot. "I teach Sunday School at the Ebenezer A. M. E. Church. It's on Roosevelt in Brooklyn."

Elliot's eyebrows shot up. Fin ignored his shock.

"I teach the third grade boys' class. I want you to go talk to them, tell them what went down here with me. Tell them I'll be watching them so they better live the way they're supposed to, and not the way the world wants them to."

Fin glanced from Elliot to the deadman switch in his hands.

_They're too young to know how precious life really is... but they're project kids... they already know how to throw their lives away... I've been telling them—no drugs, no sex till they're ready to be fathers, no gangs... just be honest—no need to mouth off or boast.... _

The memory of the lesson he had taken from the Book of James brought Munch to mind.

_Talk about a man whose mouth got him in trouble... but it gave me a chance to represent to Caleb and Kemel... show them how a man apologies for his mistakes... then they showed me something I didn't expect... how to care about someone they never even met... got me deep, that did...._

Fin gritted his teeth against the unexpected dilemma.

_I can't tell Elliot why I dumped Munch as a partner... bad enough I told him about my brother... but John had my back too many times to just leave things like this... maybe there's a way to handle it... one that doesn't tell Elliot anything, but tells John what needs to be said...._

Fin glanced at Elliot to see if he still was paying attention.

_Good... now, say it casual like it don't mean anything...._

"When you go, take Munch with you. Couple of my boys were praying for him when he and Judith got in all that trouble. He might want to know about that."

_And I think that covers it... ain't much... but it's all I got...._

Fin watched Elliot keep silent for a few seconds in case anything else was said, then he nodded a third time.

"You got it, Fin."

The rasp in Elliot's voice brought another lump to Fin's throat. He gulped it back down then said, "You getting teary-eyed, Stabler? Don't tell me the jarhead's a candy ass."

Elliot blinked then shook his head vehemently.

"No, no—I'm just trying not to laugh. John in a Sunday School class—that has to violate a law of physics or something."

Fin mentally pictured Caleb and Kemel showing Munch how they had prayed for him.

_The two of them, hands raised in praise and supplication, on either side of Munch's scrawny ass... be almost worth dying to see that...._

From the far end of the hall came the sound of motors starting. Fin looked over his shoulder at the elevator.

_I've seen the bomb squad at work... they won't let Elliot stay... not gonna say how hard it'll be seeing him leave...._

Fin turned back to face his friend.

"About time they got here," he said, using the complaint to cover his fear. "My hands getting tired of holding this damn switch."

"At least you got something to do," Elliot countered. "I've spent more interesting half-hours watching paint dry."

"You watch paint dry? Stabler, that's damn pitiful."

Elliot shrugged in reply. To Fin, his smile seemed forced and his gaze too intent for the light tone of his words.

_Elliot's scared for me... he's not gonna say it, just like I'm not... he's good people—the best kind of good...._

Quickly, before the elevator door opened, Fin softened his habitual scowl and looked directly at Elliot.

"Thanks."

The one word must have been enough, for he saw Elliot's jaw clench as though holding things in, and his reply was whispered through stiff lips.

"Any time, Fin. Any time."

Behind Fin came the whoosh of automatic doors opening. Over his shoulder, Fin saw someone in a thick olive-green protective suit leave the elevator. The bomb tech scanned the area around him then he turned toward Fin, Elliot, and the dead bomber. After taking a moment to scope out the situation, he waved a thick-gloved hand. The action brought a second man from the elevator.

_Khaki pants, navy blue cap and windbreaker both with Bomb Squad patches... he's carrying a couple bags... must be gear.... _

The second man remained by the elevator while the man in the suit approached the two detectives, his gait surprisingly agile given the armor and padding covering him. Through the thick glass of his mask, Fin could see his face.

_White guys shouldn't shave their heads...._

He stopped four feet from Elliot, just inside Fin's field of vision.

"Detective Sergeant Matt Inglee," he introduced himself, his words muffled by his suit's high collar and mask. "Which one of you is Detective Odafin Tutuola?"

Fin scowled up at him.

_The one with his hands on the damn deadman switch...._

Inglee raised two thick-gloved hands.

"I know—it's a stupid question, but I have to ask it. Protocol's a bitch."

_Yeah, I know… at least you pronounced it correctly…._

"I'm Fin. My friend here is Stabler."

Inglee squatted on his heels and nodded to Elliot.

"Please to meet you. Detective Stabler, and you have to leave now. Sorry about that."

For a moment, Elliot's relief at that statement showed too plainly on his face. Fin felt a surge of anger…

_Damn you—you think I want to stay?_

… but Elliot's next act was to reach out and lay his hand on Fin's shoulder. The brief touch, something Fin normally would have warned off with a snarl, warmed him to his bones.

_He'd take my place, if he could… family, or not—he'd do it…. so I guess it's a good thing he can't…._

Fin blinked his eyes dry while Elliot then got to his feet. Inglee pointed to the stairs.

"I can't get to work until you're safe outside. Gaylard over there will signal me when our lieu tells him you're clear."

Fin watched as Elliot frowned his displeasure at the bomb tech.

"Get your ass in gear, Stabler," he told him. "You're keeping me waiting."

"Okay, I'm going. See you outside..."

Elliot paused then said, "… and I'm buying."

Fin jerked his head, drawing Inglee's attention to Stabler.

"You hear that?" he told Inglee. "You're my witness in case he tries to weasel out of it."

"I'm included, right?" came Inglee's muffled reply.

"Sure," said Elliot. "You and Fin—hell, Gaylard, too."

Elliot caught Fin's gaze and nodded once then he turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. Fin focused his attention on the padding of Inglee's suit, trying not to hear Elliot's footsteps fade into the distance.

_Now the real fun starts… and I got a front-row seat.... _

Residence of Andrew Beale  
205 East Sixteenth Street  
15 August 4:45 p.m.

_That takes care of the living room furniture—nothing in the crevices or cushions… no signs of hiding places in the moldings or behind the artwork… no hidden drawers in the tables or the pedestal under that ghastly metal torso… nothing under the rug… Robinson and Salazar are searching the master bath—I can tell from Robinson's cracks about Beale's personal care items, especially the minoxidil—to give Cragen credit, he's not at all ashamed of being bald… that his friend uses Rogaine strikes me as funny…._

Olivia knelt in front of the flat screen TV.

_It's damn near five feet wide… the storage under it has a cable box, a DVD player and a few DVDs… a remote control… some instruction books…._

She checked the cable box and the disc player then she opened the DVD cases one by one, verifying that the movie title and info imprinted on each disc matched the name and info on the insert folder.

_Some "art" porn—male on male… boxed set of "Band of Brothers"… three compilations of B-movie whodunits… somehow, I can't picture Bureau Chief Beale on his sofa with a bowl of popcorn and watching "A Scream in the Dark…."_

Olivia examined the storage unit next.

_No hidden places… nothing taped to the outsides and undersides of the drawers… nothing behind the screen, either…._

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught ADA Borgia, seated in one of the red velvet loveseats, muffling a yawn.

_I can't imagine having to observe a search… doing one is boring enough… certainly not enough to keep my mind occupied… parts of it keeps picturing Fin holding a bomb, keeping it from exploding… seeing Elliot with him… and then Couch's news that he's joining ESU's raid on Eshan's apartment… that's three of us in danger at once… and I'm stuck here, sorting through Beale's movie collection…._

Olivia glared at the flat screen before she crossed the room to stand before the glass-fronted unit holding Beale's music system.

_This is the only thing left in this room to be searched… if I don't find it here, and if Robinson and Salazar come up empty—_

The ring of her cell phone cut off the thought.

_Must be Lake or Couch checking in… tell me it's good news about Fin… please, let it be good news…._

Donna Loudoun's news was anything but good.

_No, not John, too… not today…._

Benson kept her replies and suggestions short, almost to the point of rudeness.

_It's not Donna's fault… but I'm hip-deep in my own crap right now… I can't handle hers for her… she either steps up or falls face-first in it…. _

Olivia pocketed her phone and stood stock still, staring blankly at the glass doors of the cabinet before her.

_Why John? Don't we have enough to worry about—Fin and Elliot and Couch… and now—_

"What is it now?"

Borgia sounded so annoyed to Olivia that she whirled about to face the ADA.

"I've got a detective down," she snapped at her. "John Munch—he was injured arresting a suspected child rapist."

Borgia's wide-eyed shock at the news mollified some of Olivia's anger.

"Oh, God," the ADA said. "Do you need to go? We can finish here if you have to—"

"I'm fine," Olivia told her. "Let's just get this done and then get out of here."

She turned back to the cabinet. Squatting in front of it, she opened the doors.

_Receiver and amplifier, CD player… I shouldn't take it out on Borgia—it's not her fault… tape player—dusty, probably not used much any more… John's unconscious, being transported… and no news yet on Fin… keep your mind on the search… turntable, its cover thick with dust… I already checked the speakers—good place to hide things, but they were clean… I should have heard from Elliot by now… Couch said the bomb squad was on their way… too many things to worry about… keep focused on my own assignment… but keep everyone in my thoughts… let them be safe and well…._

There were no hidden compartments in the cabinet or equipment so she started on the recorded music. A dozen tape cassettes in cases with hand-lettered labels were stacked by the tape player.

_They seem to be copies of concert recordings… if nothing else, we can get Beale on copyright violations… all of them are dusty, but I have to look inside the cases anyway…._

Having found nothing there, Olivia next opened the door to the end section of the cabinet. Inside was a rack holding dozens of CD cases.

_These all look commercial… do them just like the books---open one up, see if the disc matches the name on the liner notes then check the next one…._

She was replaced the fifth CD when her phone rang again.

_Let it be Elliot… let him tell me Fin's okay…._

She took out the phone and, without checking its display, answered the call.

"Benson."

"_Olivia, it's Dave. Are you okay?"_

Hearing the concern in his voice made her eyes tear up.

"Yes," she replied. "I'm fine."

"_I'm so glad—hold on a sec_. _Dad, Danielle, Lars_—_Olivia's okay. I'm talking to her right now. She's says she's fine. Olivia, are you at your precinct?"_

"No, I'm executing a search warrant on East Sixteenth."

She heard him sigh as if in relief.

"_We heard the news in the car after Danielle's soccer game. I figured you wouldn't answer if you were the detective involved—they'd probably take your cell phone away in case it might trigger something."_

Olivia tucked the phone under her chin and grabbed the next CD.

"I'm fine," she assured Dave. "Have you heard anything?"

"_All I know is the bomb squad is at the scene, and one detective just exited the building. I turned the TV on right before I called you, but I wouldn't let my kids watch, just in case…."_

He left the sentence unfinished. Olivia rushed to reassure him as she opened the CD case.

"I'm nowhere near there. Elliot must be the detective who left. Fin Tutuola is the one who stopped the bomber."

"_Wow. Was the bomber after your unit or cops in general?"_

Olivia checked the imprint on the CD against the front of its case.

_They match… and I'm not sure I want to answer… Dave's been great about my job so far… but we really haven't talked about how it can be dangerous…._

"_Does your silence mean the first one—he was targeting SVU?"_

Caught before she had decided what to reply, Olivia stared at the open CD case in her hands as she tried to think.

_I guess I owe Dave the truth… he did get it right—and what the hell is that?_

"That" was a curved glint of silver showing in the narrow gap between the edge of the left-hand side of the open jewel case and the edge of the insert quickly removed the folder from the case and opened it. Inside, she found an unlabeled disc.

_Verbatim DVD-R… 4.7 gigabytes of storage… we have a recording… maybe video… but of what?_

She held the disc up so the ADA could see it.

"_Olivia? Are you there? Can you hear me?"_

"Oh, yeah—sorry, Dave, but I think I just found something important."

"_Okay, I understand—just don't leave me hanging on this."_

While she was talking, Borgia joined Olivia by the cabinet. The ADA pointed at the CD then she whispered a request to play it. Olivia shook her head.

_I have to… chain of custody…._

She turned her attention back to her cell phone.

"Dave, don't tell Danielle and Lars, but the bomb probably was meant for us. It may be tied to a case we closed a couple of months ago. I'll know more when I finish up here and get back in the loop. Can I call you later?"

"_Sure, but why don't you come over? We'd all like to make sure you're okay in person."_

The idea that the entire Viks family was worrying about her safety made Olivia smile.

"It might be late," she told him. "I'm on until midnight."

"_I'll wake the kids up. Just call before you come by—oh, and I'll keep Fin Tutuola in my prayers."_

The offer warmed her even more than his concern had.

"Thanks, Dave. Can you add John Munch, too? He was injured—nothing to do with the bomb, but still…."

Olivia let the sentence trail off.

_It's too complicated to explain…._

"_Him, too,"_ Dave assured her, _"and I'll let you go. Please, be careful."_

Olivia promised that she would then she ended the call. Next to her, Borgia peered at her.

"I hate to bug you," she said. "I know how important your friend's fears might be, but we need to find out what on that disc."

The ADA held out the remote for the TV. Olivia frowned at her, but said nothing.

_I can take a hint… but it's not your friends in danger…._

Olivia took the remote from Borgia, handing her the jewel case in return. She then crossed the room to the TV, where she inserted the DVD into the player.

"What's the name of the CD in that case?" she asked Borgia as she was pushing control buttons.

"'Pearl Bailey Sings Porgy and Bess'," Borgia replied. "Seems kind of old for Andrew. Are all his CDs like this one?"

"I haven't looked at all of them," Olivia replied. "So far, it's been Clay Aiken, Kate Smith, Natalie Merchant, and two classic symphonies."

"Kate Smith? Wasn't she during World War Two?"

Olivia confirmed the guess with a nod just as the flat screen displayed a tall sleigh bed with a man sprawled face-down on the rumpled bedclothes. His legs dangled over the side so that his bare feet rested on the floor. A leather briefcase rested on the pillows to his right.

_Angle is from slightly above—maybe a camera on the dresser? I can only see the back of his head…brown hair, jeans, cream-colored short-sleeved cotton shirt… and, from the way he's bent over the edge of the mattress…._

Olivia gritted her teeth.

_I think we've found what we were looking for…._

She glanced at the ADA.

_Borgia doesn't look too eager to see this… can't blame her… neither am I…._

Before Benson could say something to the ADA, a figure entered the scene.

_No surprises here… it's Bureau Chief Beale… looks maybe five years younger—thicker hair… weighs a bit less… slacks and a golf shirt…._

Beale sat on the bed by the man's head then he turned to face the camera.

"Allow me to introduce Peter Bennington," he said while pointing at the unconscious man. "He is State Senator Albert Schneider's newest aide. Pete, say 'Hi' to the audience."

Beale put one hand on the man's forehead, lifting and twisting it until Bennington's face showed.

"I helped Pete get his new job. Here's how he's going to repay me."

He moved his hands down to Bennington's shoulder and gave it a shove that rolled the unconscious man onto his stomach. He then reached for the fly of his pants.

"Oh, God."

The exclamation came from behind the two women. Olivia glanced over her shoulder to see Robinson and Salazar at the top of the short flight of steps leading to the master bedroom. Robinson, who had spoken, was pointing at the screen.

"That's what we're looking for, right?"

Olivia nodded. "Yes, I think so."

"We have to watch it?"

"You don't, but I do."

_One of the perks of being SVU… more amateur porn than you can stomach…._

Olivia continued, "I have to be able to swear to what's in the recording for the arrest warrant. Why don't you two go through those CD cases and see if any more have discs hidden in the liner notes?"

"Sure thing."

Robinson's quick reply was followed by both men hurrying to the cabinet and crouching before it. With their backs to the TV, they began checking CD cases. Olivia then turned to the ADA.

_She's standing sideways, as though ready to leave… and she looks a bit queasy, but she is watching the screen…._

"You don't have to do this," Olivia told her. "If you need to call McCoy or Branch, now would be a good—"

Borgia shook her head.

"I'll have to watch it before we go to trial. Besides, we still need to find a record of Mark's—"

She stammered as though the word 'rape' was refusing to leave her mouth.

"… of the attack on Mark," Borgia continued. "That's what we're here for—an assault with forensics to back it up. Think it's on this one?"

Olivia held up the CD case, front toward the ADA.

"Peter Bennington," she said, "Pearl Bailey. I'll bet Beale stores his conquests by their initials."

Borgia winced at the word "conquests" but she did not comment on it. Instead, she called to the men behind her.

"Ted, Hector—see if there's a CD by someone with the initials M-N."

"Will do," Salazar replied.

On the screen, Beale had Bennington's slacks and briefs pulled down to his ankles and had flipped him onto his stomach. Olivia watched as he then opened the briefcase and removed several items.

_Lube… condoms… some wet wipes… latex gloves… a plastic resealable bag… all the paraphernalia necessary for safe anal sex…._

The act itself took only a few minutes.

_Beale's not much for foreplay… he didn't even bother to remove his own slacks… looks like prepping Bennington is enough to excite him… insertion, a few thrusts, then climax… and a very thorough cleansing before he redresses Bennington… gather up all the waste into the plastic bag… then he repositions Bennington so it looks like he staggered in and collapsed on his bed all by himself… no doubt Bennington woke up the next day thinking he'd had a few drinks too many… no reason to suspect anything else… Beale is one slick operator…._

The screen went black, signaling the end of the replay. Next to Olivia, a long hiss told her that Borgia had been holding her breath.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah. It's—it's never fun to watch."

_No, it never is…._

"Do you know Bennington?"

Borgia shook her head. Olivia turned to the men behind her; Borgia copying her motion. A stack of cases on the floor by Robinson showed they also had hit paydirt.

"How many did you find?"

"Nine so far," Robinson replied as he sat back on his heels and twisted to face her. "They're all female singers but none matching Newman's init—"

Salazar interrupted him by holding up a CD.

"Found one," he said. "Mónica Naranjo—and there's a disc hidden in it."

His gaze flicked from Olivia to the screen behind her.

"Holy shit! I know him."

Benson and Borgia in unison spun back towards the TV, where a second bedroom scene now was being displayed. As they did so, Salazar joined them, his hand raised to indicate the young man lying on his side motionless on the bed.

"That's Pete Balzano," he said, his voice made harsher by shock. "That's the First Dep's son."


	28. Bomb: Part Four

Author's Notes:

Because the equipment and procedures of bomb squads are closely-held secrets (why give bombers knowledge of how their bombs will be deactivated?), the methods in this chapter are only loosely based on actual bomb disposal techniques.

On 15 Aug, 2007 in Real Life, the NYPD had just come off an alert prompted by rumors of a "dirty bomb" threat from al-Qaeda. This is mentioned in the story.

The statistics on "suspicious packages" used in this story are actual NYPD figures from 2005

SOP: standard operating procedure

Financial Crimes: a division of the Manhattan DA's office; they conduct financial investigations relating to allegations of bribery, fraud, embezzlement, and organized crime.

DPCI: "Deputy Commissioner, Public Information," the NYPD office in charge of media relations. From the NYPD website: "The Deputy Commissioner, Commanding Officer, Supervisors and Uniformed Members of the staff respond to incidents in the field which prompt a large media presence, e.g., major parades, disasters, disorders, major crime scenes, press conferences/briefings, etc."

Out of Pocket: 1: to be out of range or outside your designated area. 2: to be dodging your calls

Kay Howard: detective sergeant from Munch's Baltimore Homicide days

Several people curse in this chapter

Residence of Andrew Beale  
205 East Sixteenth Street  
15 August 5:20 p.m.

"Son of a bitch!"

Olivia's exclamation seemed to sum it up for everyone as they stared at the image displayed on Beale's TV.

_The First Dep's son? Talk about __one hell of a shitstorm …._

From the corner of her eye, Olivia saw Borgia quickly glance her way.

_I know, I know… we're here about Newman—the search warrant names him… but I have to see this—he's the son of one of ours… this recording is grainier than the one of Bennington… maybe it's a videotape transfer to this DVD… that room could be a college dorm… built-in desks and dressers with a bunk bed… Balzano is on the bottom bunk… he appears to be late teens, early twenties… scraggly beard and moustache… mouth gaping open, eyes shut…._

"You know Balzano's kid?" she heard Robinson ask

"He was with Financial Crimes when I came over to the DA's office," Salazar told him. "I'd see him around the office and wonder why he hadn't join the force. Now, he's with some forensics accounting firm—Delahoy & Banks, I think."

Olivia asked, "That makes this recording from when—late nineties?"

Salazar nodded. "Could be. I came over in 2002 and Paul was there already."

Borgia nudged Benson then pointed at the stack of CDs that the two investigators had sorted from the rest.

"We need to find the disc with Marc on it," she said, "and finish up here."

On the screen, a much thinner Andrew Beale was introducing his victim to the camera.

_No need to watch the whole thing right now… we know how it ends… it's just like Fontana said—Beale likes them completely immobile and helpless… no restraints here, but drugs are just as effective…._

Benson ejected the DVD and returned it to its case.

"Hand me that Monica one," she said, holding her hand out to Salazar. "I think Beale stored them by matching the initials of his victims to the performers."

A minute later, the flat screen displayed yet another bedroom scene, this one featuring a unconscious man who, judging by size and hair color, matched the photo Olivia had seen of Marc Newman. The ADA confirmed his identity. Robinson and Salazar then busied themselves with packing the laptop and the selected CD cases into evidence bags. While they worked, their backs to the screen, Borgia stood with Benson to watch Beale's attack on Newman.

_Same prep… same brand of lube and condoms… Beale had his routine down already… how far back so these attacks go? College? High school? Did he tutor younger students then rape them when they succeeded? I'll bet Huang will have a theory or two… there's the same quick entry and withdrawal… same thorough clean-up—no, wait…._

"Did you see Newman move just now?" she asked Borgia.

"Yeah. Think the drug's wearing off?"

"That would explain things. If Newman had woken up during the rape, he might remember it. Maybe he decided suicide was better than living with knowing what his boss did to him."

Borgia's only reply was a quick bob of her head. Olivia noted how pale and tense the ADA looked.

_Makes sense… she just watched a bureau chief rape three men, one of whom she knew… hell, it's hard for me to watch… no amount of practice ever makes this easier…._

The recording ended. As Olivia was putting the disc back in its case, Robinson asked if they were done with the search.

"Yes, that does it," Borgia replied. "I'll ride back to the office with Detective Benson. You two know not to…."

"Yes, ma'am," Salazar said, "not a word to anyone."

"Hell," his partner added, "I'll be too busy bleaching my eyes to want to talk about this."

Robinson then addressed Benson.

"I don't envy you your job—not at all. Now, do you want us to carry any of this down to your car?"

Olivia turned down the offer and thanked the two investigators. She busied herself with tidying the living room while Robinson and Salazar left the condo.

_Branch's order… no muss, no fuss—just find the proof… and damn, did we find proof…._

"Did you leave the warrant where Beale can find it?" she asked the ADA.

"Yes, and let's get going," she replied. "I don't like the idea of this dragging out any longer than it has to."

Olivia grabbed the evidence bags and followed her out the door.

_Suits me… faster we get the arrest warrant and haul Beale away in cuffs, the better… and I need to check in with Loudoun and Lake—get an update on Elliot, Fin, and Munch—please, let them be all right… I want to call Cragen, too… I'm dying to ask how he missed the signs… as close as he and Beale have been, he should have pegged Beale as a predator… this won't look good for him, not at all…._

Outside the Sixteenth Precinct  
15 August 5:50 p.m.

_I've talked to the precinct commander, the borough commander, a buttload of chiefs, inspectors and captains, and the head of the bomb squad and his team… now, I'm waiting on DPCI to set me up with the police beat reporters… I need to talk to Liv—find out what's up with her search… instead, I'm getting a fucking press conference…._

Elliot Stabler stood on the sidewalk a block south of the precinct house. Behind him were the officers and barricades that kept the evacuees and on-lookers out of everyone's way.

_Some of them just want to know when they can go home and how much damage they'll find there… some are our people wondering if two fellow officers will be killed and our house will be destroyed… others are ghouls rooting for a blast… they don't give a damn about Fin or Inglee or all our casework, personal shit, the memorial wall—no, they just want a fireworks display…._

Between Elliot and the precinct house were the official personnel and equipment of the command site. Two buses with their paramedics were closest to Elliot. He said a silent prayer that they would not be needed that day.

Beyond the buses were several RMPs and three vehicles assigned to the brass in command at the scene. Closer still to the precinct was the mobile command center, the white and blue NYPD truck with its links to One PP and the other commanders in the area, and its video monitors showing the live TV news, the feeds from the security cameras of the One-Six, and the feed from the helmet camera of Detective Sergeant Inglee.

_Soon as I saw the monitor showing Inlgee squatting next to Fin, I turned away… I want to see Fin walking out alive… nothing else…._

The MCC blocked Elliot's view of the bomb squad's personnel and trucks, parked closest to the precinct's main entrance.

_Just as well… keeps me from seeing some tech wincing right before everything blows up…._

Around Elliot, everyone moved with organized uncertainty. Training and practice made the logistics of crowd control, situation command, and personnel and equipment deployment instinctive. What made the scene chaotic was the one thing no one could foresee—the actual outcome of the situation.

_Whatever it is, we'll handle it… we'll send the locals back to their homes with an official apology for the inconvenience and tell the ghouls to move along… if we have to, we'll clean up the shattered glass, stone, and concrete… we'll dust off our dress blues and assemble the bagpipers… say farewell to—whatever happens, we know what to do… it's not knowing that's weighing us down right now…._

"Elliot?"

Chester's voice brought Elliot out of his thoughts. He looked around and spotted Lake on his crutches approaching him from the rear of the MCC, accompanied by Howie Brewster. Brewster was in cargo shorts and a green t-shirt advertising a surf shop, a souvenir from his Florida vacation. A navy windbreaker with the One-Six's emblem and his shield clipped to his waistband differentiated him from the lookie-loos to Elliot's right.

"Howie," Elliot greeted him, "how ya doing?"

Brewster gestured at the bustle surrounding them.

"Fine, now that the circus is in town. Lake said you guys haven't been able to reach Cragen"

Chester replied, "Still nothing back from the Six-Two. You think he's in the city?"

Stabler shrugged. "For all I know, he's out enjoying his Jaguar, the top down and his cell off. That's where I'd be, given the chance."

"If so," Lake joined in, "he's pissed off a lot of brass. He's not supposed to be out-of-pocket like this."

Elliot chuckled, knowing the sound would ring false under the current circumstances.

"Figures," he said. "This is the closest Cap's ever been to promotion, and he vanishes just as all hell breaks loose. The man has no luck, no freaking luck at all."

All three men nodded at the truth of that statement. Chester then told Elliot and Howie he had just talked to Olivia.

"She said she tried you first," he told Elliot, "and got voicemail."

Elliot said a few choice words about chiefs and cell phone etiquette.

"Yeah," Howie replied, "the brass don't care if your wife's about to birth triplets but, if their bookie calls…."

"Anyway," Chester continued, "she said she was in her way to the DA's office and she needs you to call her back ASAP. She also said she'd talked to Loudoun. Munch is at Bellevue and someone named Sergeant Walker is with him. Either of you know him?"

Both Elliot and Howie shook their heads.

"One of us should be with Munch," Brewster replied, "not some friend of Loudoun's. I'll go and call you when I know something."

He glanced up at the seventh floor of the One-Six. The annoyance he had shown at Lake's news vanished as he frowned at the windows.

_He's as worried as I am—we all are… can't do a damn thing about it except wait… I hate this… I'd rather be in there doing something… not out here waiting for reporters…._

"You'll let me know," Howie said, his attention fixed on the seventh floor, "if…?"

"Yeah," Elliot assured him. "First thing."

Brewster tore his gaze from the precinct and gave Elliot a tight smile before leaving for his car. Elliot then pulled out his phone.

"You calling Benson?" Chester asked him.

Elliot let his actions answer the question. When he heard her voice live in his ear, he said her name.

_"Elliot," _she replied,_ "I'm in Branch's office. You need to get here right now."_

"I can't," he told her. "DPCI wants me to—"

_"Branch's orders. Get here yesterday."_

She hung up before he could say anything more. Elliot ignored Lake's puzzled expression as he glanced around the locale.

_Something big must have broke with Beale… but I'm not cleared to leave… hope the DA will smooth that over for me…._

"You going?"

Elliot nodded. "If anyone asks, you don't know where I am."

Lake released a hand from his crutch and covered his eyes with it.

"Sorry, sir," he said, "I didn't see where Stabler went."

"Good man. Call me if—"

Like Brewster, Elliot found he could not finish the request. Lake lowered his hand and promised to call whatever happened. With that assurance, Elliot checked again for brass then bolted for his car.

_I'm leaving, but it's all coming with me… that look on Fin's face—him determined and scared at the same time…never seen him look helpless before… the requests he made—always figured he had a life outside the job… never knew how alone he really is… … and Eshan—watching the light fade in his eyes, knowing I did that to him… yeah, it's all coming with me… shit like this stays with you forever…._

Seventh Floor  
Sixteenth Precinct  
15 August 5:20 p.m.

While Detective Sergeant Inglee waited for word that Stabler was clear of the building, he asked Fin a series of questions.

_Yes, I can hold this position a while longer… no, I don't need anything… no, I don't have a police radio on my person—good thing 'cause radios can be used to set off bombs remotely, which is why Inglee yells to Gaylard instead of using a radio… how'd I know to ask for a head shot? Hell, I learned that back in Ranger training… and then Inglee tells me he's a jarhead so it's either hold this damn bomb forever or let a Marine rescue me… Stabler won't ever let me forget this…._

Inglee then explained the next steps of the procedure to Fin.

_He's gonna cover me with a couple of blast blanket_s_… they're designed to put over bombs so, if they explode, the blanket contains the blast… I asked if that was SOP and he said I'm the first one he's had like this… the squad's techs conferred and decided it should work… if there weren't wires running from my hands to the bomb, he'd put a screen between me and the bomb while he worked on it… told him, if that was the case, I'd have gotten the hell out of here hours ago… now, I get to be their guinea pig…._

Inglee told Fin he would next x-ray the dead bomber's torso so he could see details of the bomb strapped to it without removing his coat.

_Just in case the coat is booby-trapped… he wants to x-ray my hands, too… see if there's an explosive charge in the detonator… he asked if I have had any previous excessive exposure to radiation… I told him just dental exams and couple of times in the hospital… seems I'm okay on that one… after Inglee sees the x-rays, he'll know how to disarm the bomb… he says they're usually straightforward and easy—except when they ain't…._

"We had over three hundred-fifty suspicious packages last year," Inglee said. "We only had to disrupt a dozen or so. The rest of our time, we study devices found by other bomb squads, and we visit their facilities, see how they do things. Since 9/11, most of us have been out of the country for training—London, Belfast, Israel—I did a month in Tel Aviv last year. Damn, but the Israelis know their stuff."

Fin eyed what he could see of Inglee through his thick glass faceplate.

_He better have paid attention while he was over there… waste of my tax dollars if he didn't…. _

"First thing any of us thought of," Inglee continued, "when we got the call was how we'd just stood down from an alert about al-Qaeda bringing a dirty device into the city. Your precinct liaison updated us on the way over; he said this was revenge for some case you guys had closed."

Fin nodded.

"Afghani family—we stopped them from shipping their niece back home so she could be raped and killed."

He saw Inglee's head shake with dismay inside his headgear.

"So they go after you. Wish we could test for civilization before we let people into the USA, somehow let the good ones in and keep the barbarians out."

"People been trying to do that every since they figured out being civilized was better than being savages," Fin replied. "You figure out how, you let us know."

Inglee's muffled chuckle came just as Gaylard called to him from the elevator.

"That's the all-clear on Stabler," he told Fin. "I'll be right back."

A few minutes later, Inglee returned with two thick black pads, both about five feet on an edge.

"These are heavy," he warned Fin. "I'm going to drape one across your legs and one over your hands and head. They'll overlap, but it shouldn't cut off your air supply."

Fin held still while Inglee put the blankets in place.

_Man, they are heavy—guess they have to be… stiff, too…._

The weight of the blanket bent his head down until his chin rested on his chest. Fin hunched forward to shift the burden from his neck to his shoulders. The heavy covering cut off most of the light, leaving Fin only a dim view of the blanket covering his legs.

_Hope I don't have to sit like this too long… hard enough to breath already…._

Footsteps, slow-paced and scuffling away from him, told Fin Inglee had gone for the x-ray machine.

_Be faster if they had two techs in suits working this… wonder why they don't…._

When Inglee got back to him with his equipment, Fin asked.

_Should have figured it out for myself… those suits cost around nineteen thousand each—base price—and there's usually not enough room to let two suited men work on the package… I like the way he never says 'bomb'… it's always a 'device' or 'package….'_

"Now," Inglee said, "I'm going to move the body so I can get a plate for the image behind his back. Once it's in place, I'll take the x-ray then I'll shift the blanket and get one of your hands."

"How long will this take?"

"I'll have the images in a minute or so. It's a damn sweet machine—gives us standard x-ray photos and scans them to a computer display so we can manipulate them to see what we need."

Fin heard him pause then chuckle.

"Since you seem interested," he continued, "this unit costs over twenty-five thou, but Homeland Security picked up the tab, not the department."

Under the blanket, Fin scowled at the info.

_How about skipping the commentary and disarming the damn thing? It's getting stuffy under here… hot and stuffy…._

He gritted his teeth, trying not to think about the sounds coming from outside the protective blanket.

_He pulls those wires too much and I find out if these blankets really work… or if they don't… given a choice, I'd rather be dead instantly than maimed in the head… vegetative state ain't my idea of living…._

Finally, Fin heard the sound of a keyboard being poked followed by a long "Hmmm."

"Is that good?" he asked.

"Yeah, it is," Inglee replied. "The detonator is a simple contact switch—no blasting caps or other surprises. The package is also standard construction—a vest made of some heavy material—probably canvas—with pockets."

"What's in the pockets?'

"Tubes of what looks a sleeve of ball bearings with the explosive inside," Inglee replied. "Each tube is wired in series so they'll all go off if you let go of that switch."

"I ain't planning to let go."

"Good. I'm going to take the scanner back to Gaylard and get my tools. Shouldn't take but a few minutes. Be right back."

Fin listened to the sounds of gear being packed up then Inglee's shuffling footsteps fading as he went down the hall.

_Get his tools—I know what that means… it's disarming time… good thing I can't see what's happening… I've watched it too many times on TV—nervous guy sweating like a pig and shaking like an addict fiending for a fix… trying to decide between the red wire and the blue one while the clock on the bomb ticks down toward zero… least the dead guy didn't bring a clock with him… don't think I could stand hearing it tick… 'course, Inglee knows what wire to cut—or whatever he's got to do—he's not sweating this… at least, he's not sweating this any more than I sweat going through a door… professional but on-edge… knowing the risks and certain he can handle them… until something goes wrong… all bets are off when something goes wrong…. _

The sweat soaking Fin's clothes suddenly went ice-cold.

_Now is when I live or die… me and Inglee—it's his skin, too… it's on him… all I can do is pray he knows what he's doing… might as well do it now before he gets back…._

Fin drew in a deep breath. The stab from his injured ribs made him wince, but he ignored it as he bowed his head.

_Lord Jesus, you told us you take care of the small and the great, giving each what he needs. Please guide Inglee's hands and give him the knowledge and skill to keep us both alive. I don't want to die here like this, but it's your will, not mine. I don't always like that fact, but I know it's truth…._

Inglee's muffled voice cut Fin's supplication short.

"You want to know what I'm doing?"

_Hell, no… just get it over with…._

Knowing that statement would make him sound like a wuss, Fin instead said, "Yeah, tell me."

"I'm using a clamp ammeter," Inglee replied, "to measure the current flow through the wires between the detonator and the package itself. That will tell me where to put my jumper wires so I can cut the detonator out of the circuit. Once it's isolated, you can let go safely.

"I'm all for that."

"Figured as much. Now, if you need to shift position, this is the time to do so. I want you to hold perfectly still while I'm working."

Fin flexed his legs and settled his elbows into the padding on the box Couch had brought him.

_That's as comfortable as I'm gonna get…._

"You good?" Inglee asked.

"Yeah, I'm good."

"Okay. Here we go…."

Under the dark weight of the blanket, Fin held his breath and listened. None of the sounds were distinct enough to recognize.

_C'mon… c'mon… c'mon…._

Finally, he heard the sound of something solid being placed on the floor.

"Okay," Inglee said, "you should be able to release the detonator."

_Should be? Should be? Shit—ain't you sure?_

Fin relaxed his left hand, the one forming the outside of his grip on the deadman switch. When nothing happened, he slowly took his right hand away, feeling each millimeter of motion as the button moved upward against the skin of his palm. When his hand was clear and nothing went "Boom," he slumped back away from the box, letting his hands drop into his lap.

_Oh, God… it worked…._

"Now, I'm going to remove the blankets—okay?"

Fin's emphatic nod barely budged the protective cover over him. When the topmost blanket lifted from his shoulders, he tried to straightened up.

_Can't… gut hurts too much.. and my ribs… sure as shit one of them's cracked… and my feet are all pins and needles…._

When Inglee removed the second blanket, Fin asked him for a hand-up.

"Hate to say it, but I think everything went to sleep."

"Figures," Inglee replied, "you've been sitting still too long. How about I grab you under the arms and pull you back until you're clear?"

"Yeah."

Inglee dragged him across the hall, where Fin reached up for a grip on the wood molding that framed the lightwell then he tried to pull himself to his feet.

_It's no good… I'm sweating… can't catch my breath… can't feel my feet… gut hurts like hell…._

Fin slid back to the linoleum and slumped against the lightwell, his teeth gritted against the pain.

_So much for walking out on my own two feet…._

He heard Inglee call out to Gaylard for paramedics.

_S'okay… I'm alive… and I'll take a stretcher over a body bag any damn day of the week….  
_

Office of Manhattan District Attorney, Arthur Branch  
One Hogan Place

15 August 6:20 p.m.

Stabler's phone rang in the hallway outside the DA's office. Seeing Lake's name on the caller-id, he stopped to answer it. The news made him slump against the wall in relief.

_Fin's okay—he's coming out on a stretcher, but he's okay… word is the bomb will be a snap to disarm… damn, that's good… but nothing yet on John or Couch…._

He thanked Lake for the update then hurried into the DA's reception area. There, he found Olivia standing outside the closed door to Branch's office. A laptop and a stack of CD cases, both inside evidence bags, sat on the secretary's desk beside her.

_Arms folded across her chest, jaw clenched, scowling at thin air—she's definitely pissed about something… or someone…._

"Liv," he said, "I got here as soon as I could. You hear about Fin?"

She gave a curt nod. "Lake called just now. That's good—really good."

"Yes, it is," he agreed, puzzled by the flat tone of her voice. "What did you find at Beale's place? Anything tying him to Newman?"

The glare she fixed on him sent Elliot back a step.

"Shit, Liv—what did I do?"

"Nothing," she snapped. "Sorry, Elliot, but I think Branch is cooking up some sort of cover-up for Beale. I barely had time to tell him what we'd found before he ordered me to call you then wait out here until you arrived.. Next thing I know, he and McCoy are going at it—I could hear them shouting through the door."

Elliot glanced at the thick oak door.

_Door like that can hold back a lot of shit… hope it doesn't spill out on us…._

"What were they arguing about?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I couldn't make out any words. ADA Borgia was with them. About ten minutes ago, she flew out of here looking like the governor had just granted her a full pardon."

She stepped close to her partner and lowered her voice.

"If Branch offers Beale a pass, I'm going straight to the commissioner. I can't let that happen—not with what I found today."

Elliot worked hard to keep from rolling his eyes.

_And we're back to where I started the conversation…_

"So," he asked again, "what did you find?"

Elliot listened as his partner detailed the evidence found then explained how Beale had hidden his recordings with his music CDs, matching the victims and singers by initials.

"Clever scheme," he commented. "How many vics?"

"At least twelve—one of whom is Paul Balzano, the First Dep's son. We saw him in what looked like a dorm room from maybe ten years ago."

Elliot's first thought was _Twelve?_ _ Damn, Cap is screwed_, but hearing Balzano's name rocked him back on his heels.

"You're kidding me?"

When his partner shook her head, Elliot let out a low whistle.

"There's more," Olivia told him. "Borgia seemed more upset by Balzano's rape than by Newman's, but she didn't recognize Balzano until one of the DA's guys identified him. Elliot, I think Branch and McCoy are holding something back from us."

_C'mon, Liv… the brass always holds something back… you know that…._

Elliot opened his mouth to say just that, but one look at his partner changed his mind.

_Better let her blow up at Branch… he deserves it more than I do…._

Instead, he gestured toward the office door.

"Grab those bags and let's find out what they know."

He went to the office door, rapped on it twice then opened it.

"You wanted to see us, sir?"

Bellevue Hospital  
15 August 6:40 p.m.

He floated through swirls and eddies of vegetable-colored haze with no idea of when or where he might be. Since nothing in the patterns forming around him felt threatening, Munch relaxed to enjoy the show.

_Not bad… not bad at all… wonder how long until I crash… and what I took to get here… wouldn't mind taking more of it, whatever it—ooh, pretty… do it again…._

After a while, the sound of voices joined the whirling colors.

_Male and female… not mellow at all… peeved… good word… peeved… he is peeved and she is peeved… sounds like Connie and Howie… he is peeved and she is peeved so they are both peeved… I haven't mentioned Connie to anyone… maybe that's why Howie is peeved… Detective Howie Brewster is peeved… Howie… Howard… Kay Howard… beautiful Kay… wonderful red hair—kind of like that tomato waterfall over there… thick.. soft… flowing… I always liked red hair…._

"Huh? I think he said something."

A scent joined the colors: Connie's perfume, the one that reminded John of the now-wild orange groves near his uncle's home in Florida. John drank in the fragrance.

_I always liked red hair and oranges…._

"What was that, John? Did you say 'oranges?'"

_I think someone's talking to me…._

He raised his eyelids to see a harsh light partially blocked by two faces.

_Howie and Connie… two of my favorite redheads… is Kay here, too?_

"There's no Kay here, John. You're in the hospital. You cracked your head open."

_Hospital? Well, that explains the drugs…._

John turned his head in an attempt to verify what Connie had said.

_Metal rails on the bed… curtains… monitors… a table with a box of tissues and a telephone… telephone… I'm supposed to do something with a telephone…._

Nothing came to mind. John turned back to the two people looking down at him then he closed his eyes.

_Tired now… I'll say 'hi' to Kay's hair for you…._


	29. Bombshells

Author's Notes:

Troy-bilt: a brand of lawn mower

LED: Light-Emitting Diode, used as an indicator on electronic devices

_Fattoush: _ correctly pronounced "fadush"

Shields for NYPD lieutenants and above are not numbered.

ESU: Emergency Services Unit

Sartorial: of or relating to clothing

Lillian: the name of Arthur Branch's wife

"In for a penny, in for a pound" English idiom meaning "If you're going to take a chance, why not bet every thing on it?"

There is a fair amount of exposition (correct term for characters explaining things) in this chapter. Although nothing has improved for any of the characters, the worst word in this chapter is "damn."

Residence of Don Cragen  
Bensonhurst, NY  
15 August 6:05 p.m.

_Beale talked the entire subway ride to the 145__th__ Street station, where I'd parked my car… then he talked the entire way back to my place—critiques of the various plays, opinions on the players, the managers, the umpires, and even the organist… I didn't hear anything wrong, but he swears "Take Me Out To The Ball Game" was off-tempo… I spent the drive worrying about finding my street filled with RMPs and ESU thanks to my broken cell phone and John not getting through… but my street was quiet… no officers with weapons drawn—only Wally next door on his Troy-bilt finishing up his mowing…._

After a greeting to Wally and a few words about how great his yard looked, a conversation Beale did not join, Don Cragen unlocked his front door and held it open for the rotund bureau chief. He then turned to lock it behind him.

_He is my friend… he is my friend… he may be my friend, but I'm still watching him… problem is, I still don't know if I'm watching him like a mouse watches a hawk flying overhead—Beale as predator… or like a hawk watches that mouse—Beale as prey… or if I'm merely a birdwatcher on a boring Sunday afternoon—Beale as my friend… I need to stay on edge, just like John said… so I really need to be the hawk right now… alert, ready to swoop… unfortunately, I feel too damn much like a mouse right now…._

Don stepped around Beale to get to the maple table by the foot of the stairs. On it were a cut-glass vase holding spare pocket change, and a wireless phone in its base. As he placed his keys and the ruins of his cell phone on the table, Don noted the flashing green LED that signaled stored messages.

When he turned back around, Beale was checking his watch.

"I need you," he said, "to get a fire started. That wood is well-seasoned, but I need coals for the steaks. How are you at fire-starting?"

Don faked a smile.

"The arson squad knows me as 'Embers' Cragen, fastest firebug in the city," he replied.

Beale's cheeks pouched out as he laughed at the joke, their fat creases almost hiding his eyes.

"Let's hope the promotion board doesn't get wind of your alter-ego. Otherwise, your oak leaves will go up in smoke."

Don widened the fake smile as he reached for the phone. Beale pointed toward the kitchen door.

"Timing is everything, and my schedule is timed to the start of the Mets game at seven-oh-five pee-em. Don't make dinner run late."

He took a step towards Don and made shooing motions with both hands. Don moved backwards, away from Beale and the phone.

_It should be all right… I set a PIN code for the messages… they can't be listened to or tampered with… probably overkill, but who knows?_

"Okay, okay," he told Beale, "Embers Cragen never disappoints a client."

The sound of Beale's laugh followed him through the kitchen, where he took note of the clock on his microwave, and out the back door to the patio. There, Don picked up the two stacks of spilt pecan wood that Beale had dropped off the day before then he carried them to the brick barbecue pit.

_I brought out the kindling and matches this morning… Beale told Tullia and me yesterday how much he hates charcoal lighter… he claims the taste of it lingers… I never noticed, but I usually grill hotdogs, burgers, and brats and mustard probably hides the taste…._

Don glanced at the dining room window as he arranged the kindling. As part of his preparation, he had taped over the light indicating the camera was working so it could not be spotted.

_I checked the video feed this morning before Beale arrived… everything should still be 'go…' now, let's see what I remember from Cub Scouts—loose pile of small stuff… teepee of larger stuff over it… log cabin of bigger stuff around and over the teepee… light a match and I should have fire…. _

He then lit a match and placed it under the teepee. The dry twigs caught immediately, sending flames up to catch the wood tented above them. In a few minutes, all the wood in the center of his structure was aflame. He carefully places some of the split pecan wood around and over the fire, certain that it would catch in turn and burn to embers.

_That should do it… now, for something to drink and those messages…._

Inside his kitchen, Don found Beale in a white cotton full apron that covered his golf shirt and slacks, its ties straining to reach around his ample middle. In his hands was a chef's knife that Don did not recognize. As Don watched, Beale reduced a yellow bell pepper into bite-sized squares, seeds and core in less than ten seconds. The seeds and core went into the trash under the sink; the cubed pepper went into one of Beale's mixing bowls.

"You brought your own knives?" Don asked.

Beale nodded, his attention on his chopping.

"Tullia warned me yesterday while you were carting in the groceries. She said yours wouldn't cut warm butter."

Don opened the fridge and peered inside.

"I don't do much cooking," he admitted. "It's mostly take-out or frozen. You want anything? There's iced tea, apple juice, club soda—and what's with the mint-flavored water?"

Beale briefly glanced at the fridge before picking up another pepper.

"It's to accompany our food," he replied. "There's mint in the salad. Right now, I'll take some tea."

Don's hand hesitated over the nearest of the six plastic bottles.

_I know I checked those bottles thoroughly, but it's good to know Beale is planning to drink them, too… _

As soon as Don had poured two glasses of tea, he carried his to the hall table to listen to his messages and call John.

_Pin code to unlock the phone is "843" … the last three digits of my patrolman's shield…._

The first message was from Tullia at 11:37 a.m. It was a short message telling Don how much she wished he was going with her to her family's Sunday dinner.

_Next time, I'll be there… we'll pull up in my Jag and I'll look Tony Balzano straight in his eyes and dare him to say a word about anything…. _

The endearments at the end of her message brought a smile to Don's face, one that vanished at the sound of Beale's voice.

"That Tullia? Shame she couldn't join us today."

Don answered with a nod and the awareness that Beale was listening in before he moved on to the next message.

_"Captain, it's Stabler. Just calling with an update. Olivia is with ADA Borgia—more of that case they called us about last month. Munch and Loudoun brought in a suspect for a rape-murder in Tompkins Square Park and now they're finishing off their list for the Choi murder. Fin and Couch are back after canvassing for a rape-murder up by Inwood. Other than that, it's been quiet. See you tomorrow. Bye-bye." _

Don deleted the message after noting its time.

_Eight minutes to four and it's the last message… good to hear… a quiet shift change is always good…._

A quick check of the kitchen showed Beale was now chopping a cucumber. Don called to him to look out the window to see how the fire was doing.

"Looks good from here," Beale replied. "If you ever want a reference, Embers, then I'm your man."

_Yeah, right…._

"I need to make a follow-up call first," Don told him, "then I'll be in to help."

Don then moved into the living room, out of Beale's sight.

_And out of his hearing, I hope… now, to see why there's nothing from John… and why ESU isn't coming through my front door to rescue me…._

John's cell was answered on the third ring.

_"Detective Munch's phone, Sergeant Walker speaking."_

The mental image of a crime scene replaced Don's view of his living room. At its center was John's lifeless body, a uniformed sergeant reaching into John's pants pocket so she could answer to see who was calling.

_Not John—not now… no… _

His throat went dry as Don struggled to replied.

"Uh… I'm calling to talk to John. Is he okay?"

The short pause before Sgt. Walker replied did nothing to ease Don's panic.

_"Yes—at least, he will be. He fell while apprehending a perp and hit his head. He's at Bellevue right now; Detective Brewster and I are with him."_

"Can I speak with John?"

_"He's pretty much out of it. The doctor said he'll be that way until late tonight, maybe early tomorrow."_

"How about Howie?"

_"He just stepped out. Can I have him call you back?"_

"Hey, Embers—your fire needs stoking."

Don flinched at the sound of Beale's voice.

"No, that's okay," he said quickly into his phone. "I'll try again in the morning—and what was your name again?"

_"Connie Walker. I'm a friend of John's."_

"Great. Tell John I'll check on him later."

With that, Don ended the call. He dropped into his favorite chair and rested his elbows on his knees, the phone still griped tightly in his hand.

_Not John—not now… and why in hell didn't I know about this? First thing Monday, I'm hauling Loudoun into my office for calling Walker instead of me… COs, spouses, and partners get called in emergencies, not girlfriends… but yelling at Loudoun won't get John back… he's my safety net here…._

Footsteps in the hall and a slight breeze warned him that Beale had left the kitchen to join him in the living room. Don kept his gaze on the carpet between his feet as he struggled to breath normally.

_He is my friend… he is my friend…._

"Is something wrong?"

Don looked up to see Beale, his hands loosely wrapped in blue terrycloth, an old bathroom hand towel that Don had relegated to kitchen duty.

"Yeah," Don told him. "I just found out one of my detectives was injured making an collar."

"Who? How bad?"

"Munch and it doesn't sound too bad. The docs are keeping him overnight."

When he heard John's name, Beale winced.

"At his age, even a mild injury can be serious. Do you need to go see him? I can hold dinner if I need to."

The concern in Beale's words and expression seemed genuine.

_But, if he is stalking me, then every word he says is suspect…._

Don hesitated as though considering the idea to see how Beale would react. The bureau chief looked at the towel in his hands then he met Don's gaze. As far as Don could tell, he appeared to be calmly waiting for a decision.

_Either I'm in the clear or he is damn good… so let's see if he relaxes when I give him what he wants…._

"No," Don replied, "I don't think so. One of my shift leads is there. I'll let him can handle it."

Beale nodded once as though in approval.

"Delegation, the true sign of a leader. Which hospital is Munch in? I'll stop by in the morning and see how he's doing."

After Cragen told him, Beale then said, "By the way, the fire does need tending. Want me to handle it?"

"No, I got it," Don replied as he put the phone back in its cradle. "You go back to your _fattoush_."

_And I'll try to get my mind back in the game… now that the back-up quarterback has been taken out, it's all on me…._

Office of Manhattan District Attorney Arthur Branch  
15 August 6:45 p.m.

Arthur Branch invited Stabler and Benson to take a seat with a wave of his hand.

_Now, for some tap-dancing while we wait for Alexandra to return with the arrest warrant… I need to keep these detectives occupied so they don't ask any awkward questions… Andrew may be spending his day with Cragen, there's still no real proof he is after the captain… according to these DVDs Benson brought in, all Andrew's victims have been younger men… the experts say killers stay in their comfort zones with their preferred targets, which should mean Andrew won't switch to an older victim… we can pray that's stays true…._

While Stabler and Benson made themselves comfortable in the chairs on the far side of his desk, Arthur took his own seat then he adjusted his suit jacket.

_It's Sunday… I should be on the links or maybe at the beach… but, once Andrew is arrested, I'll have to talk to reporters and I can't do that in a golf shirt… I have an image to maintain…._

Jack, who was seated on the leather couch closest to Stabler, did not share Branch's sartorial worries.

_Jeans and a work shirt… he tries so hard to look blue-collar… can't face the fact he isn't anymore… he's also madder than a wet hen at me… he's demanding full disclosure, but I don't want to draw attention to Cragen being the source of our interest in Andrew or the possibility of his having Post-traumatic Stress Disorder… the captain has upheld his end of our bargain and I won't break my word to him—not without proof that he's right, which we still don't have…._

Arthur glanced at the stack of music CDs in their evidence bag that Benson had placed on his desk with Andrew's laptop.

_But we do have sufficient cause to arrest and charge Andrew with the drug-facilitated rape of Newman—and that's just the beginning… so there's no reason to borrow trouble we don't need…._

As soon as everyone was seated, Arthur told the detectives that ADA Borgia had gone to get an arrest warrant for Andrew Beale.

_Which made Detective Benson smile… there's nothing more lovely than the smile of a beautiful woman… but that's neither here nor there…._

"While we're waiting for Alexandra to return," he continued, "I want to discuss the matter of Detective Fontana."

He saw both detectives' gazes snap to the stack of CD cases.

_No, there are no singers with the initials 'JF'… I already checked…._

Branch spent the next few minutes telling the detectives how he and McCoy had learned about the Bronx DA finagling Fontana's firing with the help of someone in the Manhattan DA's office. He ignored the puzzled glances the detectives gave each another while he talked.

_Just wait until they hear the rest of this… I knew Andrew wanted my job, but this level of conniving beats anything I expected from him…._

"At first," Branch explained, "we thought the reason for Fernando Martinez to want Fontana fired was obvious—detectives like Fontana cause a great deal of grief for prosecutors."

He saw Jack nodding vigorously and he smiled to himself.

_Much of that grief comes from insufficient trial prep on the part of my EADA and his people…._

"We figured," Branch continued, "that Martinez saw a chance for payback and seized it with both hands. However, we then learned that the person who helped Martinez was Andrew, and that he had jumped through a lot of hoops to keep us from discovering that fact."

Arthur paused to make sure the detective were following his reasoning. Both had leaned forward in their seats at the mention of Beale's name.

_I thought his name might get their attention…._

"As far as we knew, the only reason for Andrew to be part of this was his friendship with Martinez. Now, if we take into account what Fontana saw him doing at the Crooked Oak Lodge and what he did to Tony Balzano's son, it makes me wonder if maybe it was Beale, and not Martinez, who leaned on Balzano to get Fontana fired."

"'Leaned on' is putting it mildly," Jack said. "I think Beale used that recording to blackmail Balzano—'Fire Fontana or I'll tell your son he was drugged and sodomized.' There isn't a father on Earth who would refuse a demand like that."

Jack paused to frown at the idea then he said, "What we don't know for certain is the motive for the extortion. Sure, Fontana saw Beale at that sex resort but, as far as we can determine, the two of them never again crossed paths. Why would Beale risk blackmail to protect himself from someone who had no motive or opportunity to expose his secrets?"

Arthur saw Benson raise an eyebrow at Jack's question. Before he could ask what was up, Benson spoke.

"I think I can answer that question," she said. "Fontana is engaged to Judith Otten, one of the detectives on our shift. He's been spending a lot of time in our squadroom—well, he was until that truck hit him. Beale may have seen him and recognized him."

Benson's answer, the missing piece that completed the puzzle, brought a smile to Arthur's lips. Across the room, McCoy collapsed back against the sofa, his face an exact match to the gaped-mouth, bulgy-eyed goldfish Arthur had won at the county fair midway when he was six.

"Fontana engaged?" McCoy finally blurted. "No woman in her right mind would marry that narcissistic Neanderthal."

Arthur swallowed a laugh.

_Fine way to refer to Fontana... from what I've heard, he's a right-minded, law and order sort of fellow… even if he is a bit slippery on the witness stand…._

"If you ask me," Arthur replied, "the NYPD could use more men like Fontana. There's too much molly-coddling of criminals as it is."

He said it as much to shock his EADA as to see how the SVU detectives would react.

_Jack's jaw dropped… he should know by now I enjoy twisting his tail… and Benson is staring at me like I just sprouted fangs and a rattle-tail… but Stabler looks like he gets it… good man, Stabler…._

"I also hear Fontana appreciates the finer things in life," Branch continued. "Do either of you know if he plays golf?"

_If so, I might invite him to join a foursome… maybe talk to him about supporting my reelection… he looks like he could afford to write a good-sized check or two… but, judging from the shocked look on Jack's face, I'd better get back to the subject at-hand…._

"So, Detective" he said to Benson, "you think Beale saw Fontana in your squadroom, and felt threatened by the idea of pillow talk between Fontana and his fiancée?"

The distinctly queasy look on Benson's face showed she shared Jack's opinion of the pairing. 

_Surely a woman of Benson's experience knows good women are always drawn to rogues… if it weren't true, Lillian would never have looked twice at me…._

"It's possible," Benson replied, "but I'm not sure about Beale's being involved in Fontana's firing. That would mean the First Deputy Commissioner had proof Fontana was crooked at the very moment Beale blackmailed him, which would be a huge coincidence."

She leaned forward as though eager to press her argument.

"Balzano went up through the ranks," she told the DA. "He's as old school as they come. I don't see him faking complaints to smear one of our own, not even to protect his son. It's a lot easier to believe Fontana convinced a clerk to hide those complaints from Internal Affairs, and the shooting review just happened to uncover them during its investigation."

Arthur folded his hands on his desk.

_But that's also a good argument for my theory… if Fontana made some people angry enough to want him dead, then he undoubtedly made other people angry enough to fill out a complaint form… Balzano might have buried those complaints himself—despite Benson's protest to the contrary, the boys in blue protect their own, especially when their immigrant ancestors set sail from the same country… but I'd better not say that out loud… I doubt Stabler and Benson want to hear me accuse the NYPD's second-in-command of malfeasance…._

The DA addressed Benson's partner.

"Detective Stabler, do you agree with your partner about this?"

He watched the detective glance at Benson before responding.

_Looks like he's asking permission to disagree with her… and what's taking Alexandra so long? I can't drag this out forever…._

"I don't think blackmail is out of the question," Stabler told the DA. "The Jason Meade shot was justified so Balzano should have handed back Fontana's weapon and ended the matter. Even if those complaints are valid, Balzano ignored the rules and regs. There should have been a separate discipline hearing, a chance for Fontana and his rep to mount a defense, and, if the complaints were found valid, a chance for Fontana to work it off with modified duty and special monitoring. Instead, Balzano demanded his shield. It's like the First Dep out of the blue torpedoed Fontana."

Stabler glanced again at his partner, who nodded her agreement with his assessment.

_But not happily… she's agreeing with Stabler's recitation of the facts, not his conclusion…._

"As soon as the story hit the papers," Stabler continued, "Fontana started getting threats. According to Judith, One P.P. sat on the request for a protective detail. Maybe Beale demanded Balzano not only fire Fontana, but also leave him hanging unprotected so any hump with a grudge could take him out."

Just then, the office door swung open and ADA Borgia peered around its edge. Arthur stifled a sigh of relief as he pointed at the sofa to show she should come on in.

"That's an interesting point, Detective," he told Stabler while Borgia took a seat on the sofa next to her boss, her briefcase at her feet. "But wouldn't getting Fontana tossed out of the NYPD be enough for Beale?"

"You mentioned pillow talk," Stabler replied, with a hint of a smile. "Beale couldn't risk Fontana saying something to Judith and her putting two and two together."

"That does make sense," McCoy said. "Once Beale had his hooks into Balzano, he could ask for anything he wanted, including the death of an ex-cop."

"It's not like Balzano had to pull the trigger himself," Stabler added. "All it would take is a memo to the precinct commanders ordering them not to assign anyone to Fontana. Beale could sit back and let Fontana's enemies do the dirty work for him."

Arthur saw Jack and Alexandra bob their heads in agreement, but he also noticed Benson's frown.

"I just don't see it," she said. "Balzano had plenty of reasons to fire Fontana—those complaints of force. Judith says every one of them is valid, and Fontana swears he had nothing to do with burying them—"

She bit the end of her sentence off as though unwilling to speak against a fellow officer. Arthur mentally finished the sentence for her.

_But, in the absence of proof, the most likely explanation tends to dominate… and here, that explanation is that Fontana is the culprit…._

"I hate to say it, Benson continued, "but you don't need Beale blackmailing Balzano to explain Fontana's firing."

Arthur watched Stabler's reaction to his partner's statement.

_Tip of his head in her direction… ambivalent, but leaning toward agreement… so maybe I am all wet here…._

He caught Borgia's gaze then McCoy's. The ADA reached into her briefcase and brought out the arrest warrant. McCoy mouthed the words "Tell them." Arthur ignored him as he signaled Borgia to give the warrant to Stabler.

"Then you'll have to ask Beale about Martinez and Balzano when you bring him in," he told the detectives. "Since your precinct is out of bounds for now, where will you be taking him?"

"Bronx SVU is catching for us," Benson replied. "We'll go there and locate Beale's whereabouts. Once we have him in custody, we'll take him back to the Bronx and question him there."

Jack again mouthed the words "Tell them." Branch frowned at his EADA.

_If Cragen were a confidential informant, Jack would be protecting him tooth and claw… best thing to do is Beale in custody ASAP then let Cragen work out for himself what to tell his people…._

"Given our current topic of conversation," Arthur said, "I think the Bronx is the last place you should take Beale. I'll have Alexandra call the precinct commander at the Fifth, and arrange for you to question Beale there."

Jack added, "You also won't have to track down your bureau chief. We already know he is having dinner with your captain this evening. Given Andrew's love for publicity, I think you'll find him at the command center outside your precinct house—no doubt hogging every camera in sight."

Arthur frowned at the thought.

_Which means his arrest will be televised… I'd prefer something much more low-key followed by a press conference under my control… ah, well—beggars can't be choo—_

"Beale's not at the command center," Stabler said, interrupting Arthur's thoughts, "and neither is Captain Cragen. We haven't been able to reach him—not at home, not on his cell. Detective Lake even asked the Six-Two for a drive-by of his house and got nothing."

A chill ran through the DA. He composed his expression, hiding his thoughts behind the smooth confidence every politician learns to project.

_This is not good…._

He saw Benson twist in her chair to stare at her partner.

_And this is news to her…._

On the sofa behind the detectives, Borgia went pale while McCoy leaned forward, braced as though ready to leap at his boss.

"Do you mean," Jack asked, "a patrol didn't find Cragen at home or the precinct didn't report anything back to you?"

The question seemed to catch Stabler off-guard.

"Uh, I mean they never called Lake back. It's Cragen's day-off, so we assumed he was enjoying a drive in the country…."

Stabler froze in his chair, his gaze distant for a moment before it snapped to the stack of CD cases on the desk. Arthur could almost see him mentally fitting the pieces together. The DA then glanced at Benson. The sick look of shock on her face warned him that he had run out of time, the fact driven home by Jack jumping from the sofa to rush to his boss' side.

"Arthur, you have to—"

Arthur raised his hand, cutting off Jack's demand. Quickly, before shock could turn to anger, he drew himself upright in his chair then caught everyone's gaze.

"I had promised to keep this under my hat," he told them, "for reasons that should be obvious. The source of those rumors about Bureau Chief Beale that you investigated is Captain Cragen—"

"Except they weren't rumors," Jack cut in. "Your CO came to us because he thought Beale was stalking him the same way he went after Marc Newman and the rest of his victims."

Arthur glared at McCoy as he braced himself for the explosion he knew would come. To his surprise, Benson merely turned to Stabler and said, "That explains everything."

"Yeah," her partner replied, "it does."

_And here I thought I'd be staring down the barrels of two NYPD-issued service pistols… and I still might, especially if I mention I'm still skeptical… if they think my skepticism makes it look like I'm protecting Beale instead of their captain…._

Arthur launched into a quick run-down of his conversation with Cragen, including the captain's fears that his suspicions were fueled by PSTD.

_Since I'm in for a penny, I might as well be in for a pound…._

Across his desk, the two detectives seemed preternaturally calm as they listened.

_But that calm is only on the surface… Benson has her jaw clenched so hard, her cheekbones are about to erupt through her skin… she's both focused and determined—not a woman to cross lightly… Stabler is glaring at the stack of CDs while he listens… the warrant Alexandra handed him is need of a good ironing, he's holding it so tightly…._

"The following Monday," Arthur continued, "is when I asked you to investigate Beale. When you found nothing, I relayed the results to your captain, and I ordered him to keep quiet about the matter."

Benson jerked as though prodded. Arthur paused to see if she might speak.

"You put Cragen behind an ethical wall?" she asked.

Next to Branch, McCoy stifled a snicker. Arthur shot a stern glare at him.

_I still think it's PC run amok…._

"Yes, I did," Arthur replied, "I know better than to discount the voice of experience, even when the experience can't be supported with facts. That's also why, when Beale's name came up in the Fontana matter, I asked you to investigate the matter."

_How was I to know, in the face of every thing we didn't uncover, that Cragen would ultimately turn out to be right?_

Arthur pushed his chair away from his desk and stood up. McCoy sidestepped to make room for his boss.

"Now, you know everything we know and everything we suspect. It's time you got going."

_No need to say where… we all know you're heading straight to Cragen's house… it's still early—just past seven-thirty… you'll probably interrupt their main course…._


	30. A Quiet Sunday Evening

Operation Chestnut, Wilkerson's blackmail scheme, the murders, Cragen as blackmail victim and hostage, et cetera: from my story "Scarlet Letters."

I'm using Cragen's house as depicted in the L&O first season episode "The Blue Wall," but I've changed its location on the block and reorganized the houses around it to suit the story. The address given is not canon; to my knowledge, the only info on Cragen's house is that it's in Bensonhurst.

Mercedes-Benz S600: luxury sedan with a V12 engine, price around $150,000

Otten's interrupted question about Elliot has to do with the procedures required when a police officer shoots someone. Stabler should be dealing with the shooting investigation team, not making arrests or working cases.

Dan Womack (Other Original Character): a SVU detective on Howie Brewster's shift and a friend of Fin's.

Landline: another name for fixed line telephone; a phone using copper wire or fiber optic technology

The Mets-Pirates game in this chapter was played on August 15, 2007 in Real Life. I'm assuming it was broadcast in NYC since it was played in Pittsburgh. I'm also guessing how long the innings took to play.

Regular coffee in NYC has cream/milk and sugar in it

Fold like a cheap suit: I have no idea why this phrase means "collapse or give in easily," but it does.

Kel-Tec P-11: a subcompact 9mm semi-automatic pistol weighing 21 ounces fully loaded, and easily concealed in a pants pocket

Slides are back: when a semi-automatic weapon has fired all its ammunition, its slide stops in the full-back position, exposing the chamber to show the weapon is empty

RMP: Patrol car

Characters are cursing again in this chapter.

Office of the Manhattan District Attorney

Manhattan, NY

15 August (Sunday) 7:13 p.m.

They walked in silence from Branch's office, Olivia leading the way to elevator, Elliot matching her quick strides. As she walked, her thoughts ran in circles: Beale a predator, Cragen his prey, Branch walling Cragen off, leaving him alone to try to trap Beale, which made Cragen the predator and Beale his prey.

_Thanks to Branch, Don has no support, no back-up, no idea what Branch or anyone else is doing about Beale… shit, no wonder he's been acting squirrelly these past few weeks…._

The silence continued as they rode the elevator to the lobby, Olivia working through the shock of Branch's revelations, Elliot glaring straight ahead at nothing his partner could see.

_I can hear his teeth grinding… maybe he's wondering how the hell Beale managed to fool so many people? Everyone in the DA's office… Casey and the other Sex Crimes ADAs… not to mention all of us SV detectives… so damn secure and confident—bold enough to go after his own people… helping them advance, offering advice, suggestions, contacts… gaining their trust… the world's greatest mentor… until he turns on them… drugs and rape… both done so carefully that no one suspects… no one except Newman… if only he'd reported his attack… we could have stopped Beale's string of rapes before he made bureau chief… before he ever walked into our unit… before he became Don's friend…._

The hairs at the back of her neck bristled at the thought of how that friendship began only two months earlier, when Chief of Department Thomas Sullivan had tried to sweep Sgt. Wilkerson's blackmail and murders under the rug.

_Beale saw Don struggling with the aftereffects of going against Sullivan… of being undercover with Judith then of being injured and almost taken hostage… then having Sullivan turn on him and us… all that made Don paranoid and vindictive… and very eager to change his life and get the hell away from SVU…. _

When they reached the sidewalk, Olivia turned right toward Centre Street where the Taurus from the precinct motor pool was parked. Elliot, still deep in thought, stayed in step with her.

_We saw Don's actions as him dumping his anger and fear on us, but Beale saw it as opportunity… he recognized Don was ripe for snaring… the CO of the Manhattan SV unit… damn, talk about the ultimate prize…. _

Her stomach knotted at the thought of her captain sprawled unconscious and vulnerable with the pudgy bureau chief standing over him, condom and lube in-hand.

_I think I'm gonna puke…._

She topped and put her hands on the truck of the nearest car, bracing herself over the gutter in case her nausea overwhelmed her. As she swallowed hard against the bile in her throat, Elliot placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Liv, you okay?"

Olivia swallowed again then nodded.

"Beale," she told him. "What he did turns my stomach."

"Yeah, I know. Between him and Branch, I'm not sure who to punch first."

Olivia straightened to face her partner. He was glaring at a point above her shoulder, his eyes dark, his lips pressed tight over clenched teeth.

"Why Branch?" she asked. "It's not like he planned for things to turn out this way."

"I don't Cap being used as bait," he said, "and that's what Branch's Chinese wall did—it turned Cap into bait."

"It's an 'ethical wall,' Elliot," she corrected him, "not 'Chinese.'"

Elliot sneered at the correction.

"How about we skip the PC crap and go arrest Beale? Shove him around a little, put the cuffs on too tight then forget to duck his head when we put him in the car—any of that sound good to you?"

The image of Beale's head against metal helped ease the dread sickening Olivia.

_Hell, yes—I'm good with that…._

She nodded then led the way to the Taurus parked further along Centre Street.

"So, how do you want to work it?" Elliot asked as they got into the vehicle. "We can't count on the Six-Two for backup."

"You think that's really the case?"

Her partner's scowl proved the personnel at the Six-Two were also on Elliot's punch list.

"Cap would never ignore one of us in danger. I think Beale got the First Dep to order the Six-Two to disregard any requests concerning Cragen's address."

_Makes sense… and it's more proof Beale is an old hand at this… he works out all the angles… takes away every chance his victims might have to escape or reach help…._

Olivia pulled out her cell phone.

"In that case, we'll use Judith. I warned her she was on-call after I found out about the bomb."

When Otten answered her call, Benson described the situation in general terms then told her the nearest intersection to Cragen's house, asking that Judith to meet them at the southeast corner. She ended the call without mentioning Beale or the captain.

_I want to tell her how Beale may be responsible for Fontana's troubles… but we don't know for sure… false hope is worse than no hope at all…._

"Judith said she'll be there in twenty minutes," she said as she pulled onto Centre Street. We should arrive about the same time."

Elliot fixed his gaze on the glove box and resumed saying nothing. Olivia drove toward the Manhattan Bridge to Brooklyn in silence.

_He's really chewing on something—literally… if he doesn't stop that grinding, he'll crack a molar…._

She asked if he were okay, but Elliot ignored the question. It wasn't until Olivia was negotiating the exit onto I-278S in Brooklyn that Elliot spoke.

"You missed it," he said, both his voice and expression grim. "Fin with his hands around that detonator, cracking jokes to hide how goddamned scared he was. Lake making sure Fin had everything he needed before the evacuation forced him outside. Couch telling us that bomb was meant for SVU—not cops in general, but us."

He licked his lips, a nervous tic.

"Faizullah Eshan," he told her, "the kid with the bomb was Faizullah Eshan. Only nineteen years old."

Elliot made a fist with his right hand.

"He was punching Fin in the stomach, trying to get Fin to let go. Fin shouting at me to kill him, that kid punching Fin, fighting like Hell just so he could kill us and die."

Olivia glanced at her partner.

_He's sweating, even with the A/C on… no one told me who pulled the trigger… but it's so obvious…. _

"Elliot, you did what you had to do," she said. "You know that."

He lowered his hand and stared again at the dashboard.

"Yeah, but it doesn't make his face go away."

Olivia turned her head to take a good look at him.

_Adrenaline only takes you only so far… then you have to stop and process things… Elliot must be at that stage… but we'll be at Cragen's soon… if he's not up for this, I'd better find out now…._

"El," she said, hoping a light tone and the use of his nickname would soften her questions, "if you need some time—"

His lip curved into a sneer.

"I'm fine," he snapped. "Nothing I can't handle."

"It's no problem," she told him. "Judith and I can—"

He twisted in his seat and glared at her.

"Don't try and baby me. What I need right now is Beale in cuffs and Cap safe."

Elliot's gaze left her face as he took in his surroundings.

"I should call Chester before we get there," he said, "find out about Fin and John."

His call took less than thirty seconds, long enough for Olivia to reach the exit onto Eighty-Sixth Street. Elliot ended the call by saying "Tell her to call the DA," then he put his phone away.

"John's awake and acting loopy," he told Olivia. "Howie told Chester it's a good sign. Fin's at Mercy; Dan Womack is with him and will call when he learns anything new. Chester also said he heard the raids on Eshan's home and business were successful, and that the borough commander is pissed because I left."

_Great… hope he's okay… also great… and oh, shit…._

"Is that's why you brought Branch's name up?" Olivia asked.

"Yeah. I'm hoping he'll square things with them."

Elliot blew out a long sigh then his head drooped until he was staring at the floor mats. Olivia turned left onto Twenty-First Avenue.

_Branch damn well better square things… only a few more blocks to do… last time I was here was a going-away party for Brad Anson from Howie's shift… all of us around the pool eating hot dogs and burgers… having fun on a quiet Sunday afternoon… nothing like this Sunday… today is one disaster after another… bombs, John and Fin down, Elliot fixated on a dead kid… me trying not to think about Don drugged and on his bed… don't think that… concentrate on the best outcome, not the worst…._

A block away from the rendezvous point, she said her partner's name.

"We're almost there," she said. "You good?"

Elliot raised his head and scowled at the windshield.

"Yeah. Let's get this over with."

"Okay."

The rendezvous point was a gray and brick two-story on the SE corner of Eighty-First and Twenty-Second Avenue. Olivia had chosen the location because the house's back property line ran adjacent to the side yard of Captain Cragen's house.

_There's a For Sale sign in the yard… realtor's lockbox on the front doorknob… and a black S600 in the driveway… looks like someone's showing the house… damn…._

She pulled to the curb just past the driveway. Elliot turned in his seat to check out the vehicle just as its driver-side doors opened. In the rear-view mirror, Olivia saw Detective Otten exiting the passenger door. The driver, a man in his early forties, was obviously watching the detectives from the opened driver's door.

"That guy," Elliot said, "is packing."

Olivia killed the engine then twisted around to see for herself.

_Yes, I can see the holster shoulder strap under his jacket's lapel… khakis and black t-shirt, brush cut—looks ex-military… he's staying with the Benz… Judith's coming over… blue Capri pants and blouse, running shoes, her weapon and shield clipped to her waist…._

Judith greeted them by name as they emerged from the Taurus. To Olivia, her smile appeared a bit false, and her gaze fell just short of meeting Olivia's.

_Shit… looks like she's also wound too tight …._

Elliot turned his back on the older detective.

"I'll check out Cap's place," he whispered to his partner. "You fill Judith in."

After a nod in Judith's direction, Elliot cut across the lawn to the sidewalk leading past Cragen's house. Judith took a moment to stare at his back then she turned to Olivia.

"Shouldn't he be—?" she asked, surprise sharpening her words.

_Yes, he should be talking to the shooting team… don't make me go into it… now isn't the time…._

Hoping to forestall discussion, Olivia interrupted with a curt "Yes" then she pointed at the Benz.

"Fontana gave you a limo and chauffeur?"

Judith reacted to the question by hunching her shoulders slightly.

_Protecting herself… an obvious tell…._

Olivia mentally bet herself that the older woman would lie about the luxury sedan. To her surprise, Judith instead corrected Olivia's assumption.

"Not chauffeur—bodyguard. Seems that my efforts Thursday made everything worse, not better."

"How much worse?" Olivia asked.

"People are watching Joe's building again, and also my house. The Praesidium operative in charge thinks I should arrange protection for my family, and that we should move the wedding elsewhere because they can't guarantee the safety of our guests—in fact, they're recommending Joe and I leave town altogether."

Judith paused for an anguished sigh.

"On a lighter note," she continued, "I just got off the phone with Couch. He said ESU found the makings for three more bombs in the storeroom behind Nurzai Eshan's shop. I think one was meant for the Manhattan Avenue Islamic Center and the imam who helped hide Ahmad Eshan and his family. The other two?"

Judith left the question unanswered except for a shrug, but the sick fear in her eyes matched the wave of nausea that hit Olivia at the news.

_We both know where those bombs would end up—any crowded location… Times Square… Penn Station… a subway platform at rush hour… we were lucky today… damned lucky…._

Olivia was about to say so when Stabler rounded the corner of the vacant house and ran straight for the two women.

"We do this now!" he said as he rushed up to them. "Liv and I through the back. Judith, you at the front door. Create a diversion—something loud and distracting."

_What the hell?_

Olivia gaped at her partner while Judith nodded her assent.

"Don't stay put," Stabler continued. "You'll be in our line of fire."

Judith's eyes widened, her only reaction to the danger as she drew her weapon.

"Two seconds then I'll fall back to the yard," she replied. "Front shades drawn?"

Olivia peered at her partner, trying to catch his gaze, to find out what he had seen.

_Has Beale already… no… no…._

Elliot nodded. "Give us five seconds from when we split up. Ready?"

Olivia tried again to catch Elliot's gaze as she drew her own piece.

"El," she asked, her voice shaking, "what is going—"

"No time," he told her. "Let's move!"

He sprinted across the yard, Judith running close behind him. Left with no choice and no explanation, all Olivia could do was run after them, her thoughts jumbled by Elliot's urgency.

_Wood smoke and cut grass… bird song and faint salsa music… almost sunset… Don has a fence, gate on this side… we're at sidewalk—Judith going right, us left… no windows this side of the house—Elliot must have looked into the kitchen… that door is screen outside, solid wood inside… inside… inside are Don and Beale…._

Residence of Donald Cragen

15 August 7:31 p.m.

Don and Beale ate in the living room, tray tables holding their grilled steaks and _fattoush_, the Mets playing the Pirates on the television.

_I didn't want Beale's butt in Marge's chair so I sat there myself and gave him my recliner… I figured I could always disinfect it later…._

Don nibbled at his food, forcing it down while giving a convincing imitation of a famished man enjoying a great meal.

_Given different circumstances, I wouldn't need to pretend… this steak really is the best I've ever tasted… and the salad was interesting, too… kind of a sour kick to it… Beale said that's from sumac, one of the herbs he used… I thought sumac was a poisonous plant… saying so got me a lecture on the difference between _Rhus coriaria_, the Mediterranean culinary sumac, and _Rhus vernix_, the North American plant that causes skin and mucus irritation… if nothing else, I learned something new today…._

He left the bottle of mint water untouched on his table.

_Yes, I know I checked the bottles for tampering and, yes, Beale is drinking one, too… but mint is for toothpaste and candy canes, not water… I don't care if it does complement the salad… between my suspicions and the flavor, I just can't drink it…._

Don's last bite and swallow coincided with the end of the first inning. He set his utensils on his plate while Beale, his own plate polished clean, pointed his fork at the TV screen.

"Reyes, Castillo, Wright, Delgado, and Alou," he said, reciting the Mets who had scored during the team's first at-bat. "They make the Yankee batters today look like rejects from a losing t-ball team."

"That's a bit harsh," Don noted. "Anyone can have a bad day."

"With what the Yankees get paid," Beale countered, his voice laden with scorn, "every final score should be infinity-zip."

"A score of infinity means the game will never end," Don replied. "Their fans would die in the bleachers from terminal butt sores."

Beale raised an eyebrow and asked, "Anyone ever tell you how pedantic you are?"

Don faked a grin.

"Every time I hand in my CompStat numbers."

The rotund man chuckled as he shoved his table out of his way then got to his feet.

"Funny, really funny. Now, hand me your plate and silverware."

Don did as told. Beale stacked the plate on his own empty plate, placing both forks and knives on top with his empty water bottle.

"I made coffee," he said. "You want some with dessert?"

Don nodded. Beale picked up Don's water bottle and peered at its contents.

"Not to your liking?" he asked.

Don forced himself to look calm and unruffled.

_If it's drugged, this is when Beale will urge me to drink it… _

"I'm not much on flavored water," he told Beale. "Sparkling is as wild as I get."

Beale made a small shrug at the news.

"I should have asked. Next time, I'll bring Evian."

"Suits me," Don replied. "Need any help?"

"How about folding up those tables? We won't need them for crisp and coffee."

As soon as Beale left, Don slumped back in his chair. For the first time since arriving home, his smile was unfaked.

_No argument about the water… no pushing me to give it a try—no hassle about it at all… God, I've never be so happy about being wrong…._

The clatter of dishes in the kitchen sink reminded Don of the tray tables. A few moments' effort got them folded and carried to the hall closet. As he slid them into their rack, Andrew walked up to him. He was again wearing his full apron, its ties dangling loose at his sides, and he held a steaming mug of coffee in each of his fists.

"You look like you're finally enjoying yourself," Andrew noted. "I didn't know tidying up had that effect on you."

Don beamed at him.

_It's not the tidying… it's realizing I suspected you for nothing… that you're not a predator… you really are my friend…._

"I guess it took this long for me to finally relax," he replied.

"In that case," Andrew told him, "you need more practice. As soon as you get settled in your new assignment, you should take some time off. Get away to someplace fun and take Tullia with you. Anyone who works with Councilman Baker definitely deserves a break."

Don chuckled at the dig at Tullia's boss as he closed the closet door.

_That's not a bad idea… Tullia and I driving the Jag to Buffalo… her son's on the job there—Tonawanda PD…_ _patrol division,_ _second platoon, I think she said… when I call her later tonight, I'll ask her about it…._

"You assuming I'll get that promotion," he said in reply.

"Stop being modest; of course you will. Now, take these so I can serve the crisp."

Don took the mugs one at a time, he and Andrew gingerly juggling them so neither burned their fingers. Andrew then headed for the kitchen while Don took a step toward the living room.

_One black, one regular… looks like Andrew put the right amount of milk in mine… and I'm holding a drink I didn't see prepared…._

He froze and stared into the opaque tan liquid.

_How the hell did I miss this? It's perfect for hiding a date-rape drug…._

"Something wrong?"

Andrew's question made Don jump. Coffee splashed from the mugs onto his wrist and the tile floor below.

_My throat just went dry… stomach cramping… Oh, God…. _

Don took a gulp of air then tried a smile, aware of how slick the mug handles felt as his palms began to sweat. He turned to see Andrew peering intently at him.

"Maybe I'm not as relaxed as I thought," he replied. "You mind if I skip the coffee?"

"It's decaf," Andrew replied, his voice a bit too patronizing for Don's comfort. "One cup won't hurt you. Besides, you can't eat my blueberry crisp without coffee; the sweetness of the berries needs the acid for balance."

Don gulped against the turmoil in his gut.

_Can't panic—not now… he is my friend… he is my friend—the hell he is… he just drugged my coffee… and I almost drank it…._

He gripped both mugs tightly to keep them from shaking then Don held his mug out for Andrew to take. Beale slid both his hands under the apron and into his pants pockets.

"You want the coffee," he told Don. "Trust me on this one."

The blatant refusal fed the panic rising inside Don.

_He's expecting me to fold like a cheap suit… but I can't—not now… I have to keep it together… remember I'm the hawk here—even if I'm shaking like a mouse…._

Don drew in a deep breath as he walked to the telephone table, where he put Beale's mug by his rings of keys. He then stepped back, leaving a good twelve feet between him and the bureau chief.

"I don't know what's gotten into you," Don said, his voice higher and thinner than he wanted. "There's your mug. I'm dumping mine in the sink."

_No, I'm not… I'm getting it to CSU for testing…. _

Beale planted his feet, his stance blocking Don's path to both the kitchen and the downstairs bathroom. For a moment, he glared at Don through narrowed eyes then he turned sideways, flattening himself against the door to the garage, his elbows out, his hands still in his pockets. Don saw a weak smile crease his face.

"Fine," he told Don, "I'm not going to force you to eat or drink anything you don't want. I didn't mean to upset—"

Don hurried forward, ignoring the bureau chief protests as he brushed past him.

_Put this somewhere safe then get him out of my house… order him out... draw on him if I have to… I've had enough of this shit… _

Don placed the mug upright by the sink. Behind him, Beale's protests of contrition abruptly ceased, replaced by the sound of something rubbing against fabric then a muttered curse. Don spun on his heel to see that Beale had pulled his hands from his pockets. The left hand was empty, but the right hand remained obscured by the apron's fabric, its smooth drape tented over the pocket as though something hard and angular were caught on the pocket's lining.

Don's stomach lurched.

_Oh, shit… he's got a gun…._

He staggered sideways, heading for the minimal cover of the kitchen table as he reached for the hem of his shirt to clear access to his holster. Beale tugged once more, and his hand pulled free of the fabric. It held a small chromed semi-auto pistol, its muzzle swinging toward the captain.

Don dove for the floor, tumbling into the near chair, ending up on his butt with his back against the wall, the wooden table and its two chairs between him and Beale.

"Drop it!" Don yelled as his carry piece cleared his holster. "Drop it now!"

Beale fired and something slapped Don above his left ear. He ducked and pointed his weapon under the table at Beale's legs. A dark hole appeared in the apron above Beale's left knee. Don saw the leg jerk then Beale jump to his right.

_Can't let him fire down on me…._

Don braced his foot against the near chair and shoved hard. The chair skidded from the table and across the kitchen into Beale's legs. The bureau chief stumbled against it, catching himself with his free hand on its seat. Don threw himself under the table and fired up at Beale twice. The cabinet by the fridge splintered then a hole opened on Beale's left sleeve to gush red onto the fabric below it.

Beale pushed himself up from the chair, the gun in his hand bearing again on his prey. Don saw his lips twist into a snarl as he fired again, the report of the shots lost in Don's return fire. Heat seared Don's side as Beale's jaw sagged open. Two more ragged holes appeared in the cabinets as Beale collapsed sideways onto the chair's seat. It skittered from under his weight and he fell to the floor, settling on his side, his arms and legs splayed motionless, his nose smushed against the tile.

_Oh, God…._

Don lowered his weapon, feeling it hit the floor, but hearing no sound over the ringing in his ears.

_He's down… get up… check on him… call a bus… get help… get up…._

Don reached for the edge of the table above him, and something ripped through his abdomen. The pain took his breath, leaving him gasping as the room spun around him. He started falling into the spin, but something grabbed him by his shoulders and held him steady. From above, a faint voice repeated a single word.

_Cap… cap… why? Do I need a hat? _

His brain struggled with the questions, its effort cut short by something heavy landing on his leg and hip, followed by nothing.

Olivia was sprinting for the gate when she heard the gunshots. Ahead of her, Elliot shouted for Otten. Three strides later, he hit the gate and thumbed its latch to fling it open. Olivia ran through on his heels then she dropped back and right, using his gun hand for cover as they reached the screen door.

Through its mesh, she saw Beale and Cragen down amid a jumble of kitchen furniture.

_Shit!_

Elliot pushed the screen door open and rushed in, stopping by Beale to scan the room for a shooter. Olivia passed by Elliot, skirting the bureau chief, to check the rest of the house, but Elliot called her back

"There's two guns here, both slides back."

She reversed course, holstering her weapon as she did, and found Elliot crouched by the kitchen table as he pulled Cragen from under it.

"Cap!" he was saying, "Cap!"

Olivia turned her attention to the bureau chief.

_He's not moving… blood at throat, left upper arm, and left leg… Kel-Tec on floor by right hand…._

Olivia kicked it out of her way then she squatted by the bureau chief. As she did, the screen door slammed again and Judith appeared.

"Call Dispatch," Olivia ordered. "Get buses here now. Multiple gunshots—throat, and extremities."

"Head, abdomen, thigh for Cap," Elliot added.

_He sounds scared… oh, shit… keep focused…._

Olivia bent low over Beale to check his eyes and respiration.

_He's not breathing… pupils fixed and dilated…._

Above her, Judith punched two buttons on her cell then begun opening kitchen drawers while waiting for the call to connect.

_Good thinking… towels, hot pads, aprons… whatever she can find…._

She put her hand on Beale's shoulder, being careful to avoid contact with his blood. When he did not respond to the touch, she squeezed harder, digging her fingertips into muscle, but he did not react.

"Detective Judith Otten, shield number…"

A stack of terrycloth towels landed by Olivia's knee.

_I don't think I'm going to need these…._

"…I need EMS and …"

More towels hit the floor by Elliot.

"…intersection of Eighty-First Street and Twenty-Second Avenue—one house east on Eighty-First, white over red brick..."

Elliot grabbed a towel and pressed it into Cragen's belly.

"…two down—one MOS, one civilian, multiple gunshot wounds…"

Judith brushed by Olivia and rushed down the hall. Olivia placed her fingers on the inside of Beale's right wrist.

_No pulse…bladder and bowels voided… muscles slack…._

Anger surged through Olivia. Her hands knotted into fists as she glared down at the bureau chief.

_You're dead, you sick son of a bitch… you're dead and you tried to take Don with you... damn you, Beale… we had you… we had you, but we weren't fast enough…._

Judith returned to the kitchen. Olivia unclenched her hands and sucked in a deep breath.

_Hate won't help us figure out what the fuck went wrong here…._

"Front door's open," Judith announced. "RMPs enroute; EMS four minutes out. Who needs me more?"

Olivia jerked her head in Elliot's direction.

"Nothing to do here," she said. "Go help Elliot. El, how is he?"

"Breathing, but out of it," Elliot replied as Judith knelt by him. "Pressure there—that's it. One looks like a through-and-through upper thigh and there's one in the lower abdomen. The head wound's a graze."

Olivia leaned so she could see her captain.

_Pale, clammy skin… eyes closed… he looks bad… damn you, Beale—damn you…._

Judith grabbed a towel and held it to Cragen's left thigh six inches below the blood-soaked towel in Elliot's hands. For a moment, the only sound Olivia heard was breathing, everyone panting from adrenaline and fear, then, in the distance, Olivia heard sirens.

_All hell's about to break loose… I'd better call the DA…._

She stood up.

"I'll meet them out front," she said, "and I'll update Branch. Have Judith ride with Don so you and I can work this."

Judith jerked her head up.

"They're not going to let you work this," she noted. "Brooklyn—"

Olivia started to explain, but Elliot spoke first.

"Go handle things; I'll fill Judith in."

Olivia nodded her thanks then she headed for the front stoop. Outside, the sounds of sirens came from the east and south, but the only person in sight was a man wearing khakis and a tan sports coat who stared at her from the yard next door.

_Judith's bodyguard… shit…._

She waved at him.

"Judith's okay," she called, "but we've got people down. Responders are on their way."

"You need help?" he called back.

She shook her head.

_Not sure I could explain your presence…._

He waved in reply then left. Olivia took out her phone and called the DA.

"_Branch"_

She quickly filled him in the current situation.

"_I didn't expect that. Damn."_

Olivia heard him relay the news to whomever was with him then Branch returned to her call.

"_We're on our way. All our thoughts and prayers are with your captain."_

He ended the call, leaving Olivia speechless on the front steps, his kind words ripping all semblance of detachment from her.

_Don can't need his prayers… he's our captain… he doesn't need them… he won't need them… he's going to be all right… he has to be all ri—_

An RMP with full lights and sirens skidded around the corner and screeched to a halt in front of her. Olivia gulped air then waved the officers to her.

_Have them cordon off the street… keep a path clear for the EMTs… work the case… everything will be all right if I just hold it together and work the case…._


	31. A Suitable Theory Of The Crime

SITF: Staten Island Task Force, "a borough-based unit of the NYPD."

Phil Cerreta: homicide detective from the first season of Law & Order

Cragen's family were created for my stories

'Squirt': the camp nickname admitted to by Randy Dworkin in the L&O season sixteen episode "Thinking Makes It So"

Femoral: Femoral artery, a major blood vessel in the hip and upper leg

I am not a doctor; medical facts used in this story are from Internet research

The Fontana and McCoy disagreement mentioned is from the season sixteen episode "Ghosts"

One Police Plaza undoubtedly has metal detectors and other security; I've ignoring them to keep the story moving along

DPCI: NYPD's Public Information Office

BlackBerry® is a trademarked name

_Garum _is real.

Wilson & DCLM: Edward Wilson, the Deputy Commissioner for Legal Matters. Wilson is an original character for my stories; the DPCL is a real NYPD position

I was unable to locate a floor plan for the Police Commissioner's office so I made one up. (I did find a photo of Commissioner Raymond Kelly's desk; it's very messy.)

Bowdlerize: to clean up prose by substituting clean words for naughty ones

Events in this story move faster than they would in Real Life. Procedures and rulings in this story are designed to reflect the needs of the story, not the realities of the NYPD or the DA's office.

Characters curse in this chapter.

Kings County Hospital Center  
15 August (Sunday) 9:37 p.m.

Couch Sofarelli had been heading to Bronx SVU to finish his shift when news of the shooting re-routed him to Kings County Hospital. Now, he sat in the surgery waiting area, the seat next to him occupied by a plastic bag filled with Judith Otten's soiled clothing.

_I hate to admit this, but me sitting here waiting on news about the captain is a good thing… I get to worry about him instead of what else happened today… seeing that kid dead in the hall… realizing Fin's hands were the only thing keeping us alive… him and Elliot both hiding how scared they were… I didn't do that so well—hated the way my voice cracked, but I couldn't stop it… then Elliot handing me Eshan's wallet… I still go cold at the thought of the Eshans trying to get back at us… I know about tribal justice, but it belongs in those third-world villages I drove through with my family—not here…._

Couch's call to the Intelligence Division had swept him up and carried him into the raid on Nurzai Eshan's import business, a raid launched in unison with the raid on Eshan's apartment.

_Turns out Nurzai's wife and younger children had gone to live with a cousin of the wife's in the hopes the police wouldn't find them… his oldest son __Faizullah and three other Afghani students were still living there—the raid collared two of them… according to the Intel commander for that raid, the place was filled with tapes and pamphlets from imams preaching jihad, posters all over the walls… he said one poster said 'the pious caliphate will start from Afghanistan'— that's a bin Laden quote…._

The raid on the import business had hit the mother load.

_Three more homicide vests… and the third of Faizullah's roommates preparing to put one of them on and head to the Manhattan Avenue Islamic Center… I witnessed his questioning… he was defiant but vocal… the plan was for him to attend sunset prayers and detonate his bomb in the midst of what he called 'the impious and false prayers of those who scorn Mohammed's true teachings'… but this isn't really about religion—it's about Nurzai Eshan's honor and his standing with his tribe… there would be no reason to attack the Islamic Center and Imam Rahmani if the imam hadn't helped __Ahmad Eshan __and his family escape tribal 'justice'…._

The roommate had admitted as much when questioned.

___He said the other two bombs were meant to draw attention from the attacks on the One-Six and the Islamic Center… they were planning on One Police Plaza and Times Square sometime later this evening… make the bombings look like an Al-Qaeda operation… the four of them approve of its philosophy and tactics, but aren't really tied to the organization… just four young men still bound by tribal customs… blind and deaf to what they could have and do if they'd only open their eyes and minds… and there's Judith back again…._

Couch swallowed against the bitter taste in his mouth then he moved the plastic bag to the floor, freeing the chair for Otten. She was in green hospital scrubs, a loan from an ER nurse who also had bagged her blood-soaked clothes for her, with her shield at her waist.

"People keep mistaking me for a nurse," Judith groused as she settled into the seat, "and the waistband's too light for my holster. I feel like my pants are about to fall off."

Before Couch could say anything about her 'gangsta' look, Judith switched topics, returning to the subject interrupted by the cell phone call she had just answered.

"You know, the brass will sweep most of this under the rug. Don will be the hero who—"

She paused as though formulating her next sentence.

"— was investigating allegations that Andrew Beale, the Sex Crimes Bureau Chief for New York County, had committed lewd acts with some of his subordinates. During the course of said investigation, Bureau Chief Beale attacked Captain Cragen, shooting him multiple times with an unregistered and illegally obtained handgun. Captain Cragen, although grievously wounded, returned fire, killing the bureau chief. The reason for this vicious and unexpected action on the part of the bureau chief is unknown at this time. Our thoughts and prayers—yadda, yadda, yadda…."

"You sound just like a press release."

She sighed.

"Thirty-plus years of listening to them does things to your brain. What I'm saying is the public will never know about the real dirt, but we know. We should have seen it coming, and we didn't."

Couch considered her words.

___We're being too hard on ourselves… Beale had at least a dozen victims to his credit so he had plenty of experience with lying and hiding… since everyone was ignoring the captain, it's not wonder we missed the signs of Beale stalking him…._

_"_Yeah," he said, "but maybe we didn't because both Beale and Cragen kept everything very well hidden—Beale because he knew what would happen if he got caught, and the captain because he knows the department would equate being a victim with a failure of duty."

He saw Judith's eyebrows rise at his argument. She then glanced at the other people nearby, a quick check to see if anyone could overheard them.

___That trio in the corner—the ones with the rosary beads—that's Don's mother, sister, and brother-in law… the young man with them is Don's nephew, Sean O'Donnell; he's SITF… the heavy-set man in glasses is Phil Cerreta—he served with Don at Manhattan Homicide before he retired… next to him is Inspector Kidman of ESU… Judith said he and Don also go back a ways… I'll bet half of that group—the ones on the job—are thinking the same things we're thinking… they should have had the captain's back and didn't…._

"Don isn't a victim," Judith said. "Things just got out of his control for a while. Sometimes, you can try all you want, and it still happens."

Couch glanced at another person in the waiting room, this one sitting near the entrance so he could observe both the room and the hall outside it.

___Bradley, the Praesidium operative assigned to Judith… proof that things are out of control for her and Joe… by the way she introduced him to me, I know not to mention him again—ever… but denying he is here won't make Judith's troubles go away…._

"No," he agreed, "the captain isn't a victim. If anything, it was the other way around—he was trapping Beale."

Judith's emphatic nod approved his comment and made Couch decide to leave things as they were.

___It's more than the captain seeming weak because of what Beale tried to do… my time in SVU has taught me that 'victim' doesn't have to mean 'weak'… we have to believe those in command have the judgment and skill to lead us… anything that shakes that faith weakens us as we do our jobs… that's why Judith can't admit Cragen was Beale's victim, even if only for a few day—only until he came to his senses… Judith needs to believe… hell, I need to believe….._

Couch sagged back in his chair, the weight of that need to believe heavy on his mind and heart.

___Here I am… waiting to see if my name is on the sergeant's list… to find out if I'll be one of those judged fit to command… knowing how much those under me will depend on my abilities… that's one very humbling thought….._

Enroute to Kings County Hospital  
15 August, 9:45 p.m.__

Arthur Branch's driver had delivered the DA, McCoy, and Borgia to the crime scene, but Branch had other plans for the A.D.A.

___He didn't even let me out of the car… sent me straight to the trauma center to find out how Captain Cragen was doing… just as well… I'm not much for seeing dead bodies… evidence photos are bad enough…._

During the fifteen-minute drive to the hospital, Alexandra considered what Jack and Arthur had discussed on the drive to Captain Cragen's house.

___How to handle the Beale situation… if they don't find hard evidence—date-rape drugs or any of the items we saw on the DVDs—then all we have is Cragen's word that Beale was after him… Arthur actually said it might be better if this was ruled a shooting for unknown reasons with no mention of Beale's previous sexual attacks… I got the idea he wasn't trying to protect Cragen as much as deflect criticism for his promoting Beale to Sex Crimes Bureau Chief… I think Jack agreed with me—he told Arthur to wait for CSU to finish their work before deciding how to spin this …._

Their conversation then had turned to a subject even more disturbing to the A.D.A.

___With Beale dead, we can't prove for certain whether he really did blackmail the deputy commissioner or not… all we have is suspicion and that recording of Beale raping his son… Arthur said the police would probably prefer to stick the whole mess behind their 'blue wall' never to see the light of day again… he didn't sound too upset about it…._

Alex glared at the empty seat Branch had occupied.

___I started to speak up—say that I was sorry about Balzano's son, but Fontana needs to know if he'd been shafted or not… I expected Jack would back me up, but he didn't… he said Fontana and Randy Dworkin had had plenty of time to find any proof… I didn't know Dworkin was Fontana's attorney… I can't imagine the two of them working together—not after the way he treated Fontana on the stand during the Lowell trial…._

Borgia spent a few moments thinking about the defense attorney.

___Dworkin turned out to be a lot smarter than I thought at first… of course, it's hard to think of anyone nicknamed 'Squirt' as intelligent… maybe I should have accepted his offer of a sushi dinner date—except I don't like sushi and he was opposing counsel at the time… still, it might have been fun… and this doesn't help Fontana any… I really feel like I owe him something… he deserves to know if there's another theory explaining why Balzano fired him… Arthur and Jack sound like they aren't going to pursue this… that means I should drop it…._

The driver stopped outside the hospital's main entrance to let her out. Borgia used her credentials to obtain Cragen's location from the hospital concierge desk. The concierge's directions led her to a waiting room, its two dozen chairs occupied by four separate groups. Alex skipped over the Hispanic family, and the group praying in the room's corner then she picked a man and a woman seated together as most likely to be a help to her.

___The man's dressed like a cop—wrinkled suit, awful tie, rubber-soled shoes… the woman with him is in scrubs… but those are detective shields they're wearing… might as well ask…._

She walked over to them, stopping close enough to show she wanted their attentions, but far enough away to not intrude upon their conversation.

"Excuse me," she said when they looked up, "but I saw your shields. Are you by any chance from Manhattan SVU?"

Both nodded in reply then the man made the introductions. Borgia's jaw dropped when she heard their names.

___Otten? You're Detective Otten? I've been picturing a Las Vegas showgirl… tall, thin, with big fake boobs barely covered in sequins and lots of huge pink feathers… you certainly don't fit that picture—okay, that ring on your finger is kind of gaudy…._

Alex shook off her confusion then she introduced herself. Detective Sofarelli immediately stood up and offered his seat. When she accepted, he squatted flat-footed next to her.

"I'm helping with the Beale case," Borgia told the two detectives, "so I'm here to find out how Captain Cragen is doing. How is he?"

Otten's "Uhhh" did not calm the ADA's worries. Neither did the concern on Sofarelli's face.

___Oh, no… don't let it be bad…._

"Don went though four units of blood in the ER," Otten finally said. "**Hemorrhagic shock is**never good. The head wound was a graze—bloody, but not serious. Another bullet nicked his femoral—most of his blood loss was from that. The third one hit his hipbone and tumbled through his lower abdomen. The MRI showed he'll need resections of both his small and large intestines. That means fecal contamination of his abdominal cavity and the chance of infection. If there's not enough undamaged bowel to reattach normally, then Don gets to cope with a colostomy bag for the rest of his life."

Sofarelli went pale during the description of his captain's injuries. Since Otten ignored his reaction, Borgia followed her lead.

"That's the worst case," Otten continued. "In all likelihood, Don should be out of here by the end of the week and back at work by August."

Borgia smiled with relief.

"That's good—that's really good."

She then asked a few more questions and learned that Otten had accompanied Stabler and Benson to Cragen's for the arrest then had ridden with Cragen to the ER.

_______That explains the scrubs… it also explains how she and Sofarelli know so much about the circumstances of the case… no doubt Benson told Otten what Beale was up to…._

Sofarelli then pointed out Cragen's family and friends to the ADA.

"How much did you tell them?" Borgia asked.

"Not much," Otten told her. "It seemed safer to play dumb until the official version comes out."

"Yeah," Borgia replied, "the official version."

_______Wonder what that will be? Cragen lauded as a hero or dumped on because he botched the investigation… Branch weathering the storm or getting crucified by the media for promoting a sexual predator… Balzano and his son outed as victims of blackmail and rape or those facts swept away to protect them… and…._

She eyed Fontana's fiancée as she considered that point.

_______I really should say something about Fontana… and I shouldn't—Jack will have my head if I do… it's not like I have a mattress full of money to live on if I get fired… but Lt. Van Buren will jump all over me if she ever finds out I kept quiet… Ed will, too…._

Alex's own "Uhhh" of indecision drew both detectives' gazes to her.

_______I sure hope Jack and Arthur never find out about this …._

She drew in a deep breath then leaned closer to the older woman.

"You need to call Fontana," she said, the words rushing together as though speed counted. "Have him tell his attorney to call Commissioner Richardson right away and insist he be present for any meetings with Deputy Commissioner Balzano."

Both detectives pulled back in surprise.

"Why?" asked Otten. "What does that have to do—?"

"Trust me," Alex urged her. "It's important this gets done now."

_______Before the blue wall goes up and everything gets buried…._

"Richardson is working on the Beale mess right now," Sofarelli said. "Nagging him about Joe isn't—"

Alex glanced at the people around them. All seemed intent on their own problems.

I really don't want to spell this out… not here… but Dworkin will need all the facts….

She quickly explained the theory that Balzano had been blackmailed by Beale. When Alex reached the part about the sex resort in New Hampshire, Sofarelli's jaw dropped while Otten sighed.

_______She doesn't look too surprised… maybe she and Fontana are having their honeymoon at that place…if so, I don't want to know about it…._

"And," Alex summed up, "I'd really appreciate you forgetting where you heard this. My boss—well, I don't think he like my telling you this."

"I can understand," Otten assured her. "Joe said he and McCoy butted heads over a couple of his cases."

_______'Butted heads?' During the Zona trial, Jack went and yelled at Fontana right in the middle of Homicide's squadroom… he never does that…._

Otten pulled out her cell phone before Alex could correct the understatement.

"I appreciate this," she told the ADA then she hurried from the waiting room. Sofarelli remained where he was.

"Sex resort," he said without any hint of a question or surprise.

Alex nodded.

"Beale."

She nodded again.

"A dozen victims."

She nodded a third time.

"Wow. Heads are going to roll over this."

"Oh, yeah."

_______ I just hope one of them isn't mine….._

_____One Police Plaza  
15 August 9:57 p..m._

Commissioner Timothy Richardson hated choosing his words carefully, but that talent was essential when facing the media.

_______Yes, we have recovered all the bombs and the material used to make them… yes, all the young men involved in this plot are now in custody… no, they weren't in hiding like the rest of their families because they expected to be dead by now … yes, Islam may in fact be a religion of peace, but its followers are not always as peaceful as I would like—and I hope that one passes muster with the Islamic advocacy groups… yes, the NYPD is working with federal agencies to track the origin of these explosives… and the officer who was injured stopping the bomber? The latest is that Detective Odafin Tutuola—glad Michelle pronounced his name for me—suffered two broken ribs and he should make a full recovery—and he deserves a ticker-tape parade… without him, I wouldn't be announcing successful raids and arrests—I 'd be reading a list of the dead…._

Richardson cut off the questions after that last one, using the reporters' need to file their stories as his excuse.

_______I need to get an update on the Beale-Cragen matter… no one asked about it, which means someone did a great job of making it invisible to the media…._

He thanked the attendees for their time and wished them luck on their deadlines then he declined to be interviewed live. As the TV reporters sprinted for their camera trucks and the best view of the front of police headquarters for their live feeds, Richardson and the other officials present for the presser headed indoors.

_______All of us in NYPD polos and slacks…events moved so fast today, I'm amazed anyone had time to change shirts… the way Simkins is walking, I'll bet he's still wearing his swim trunks under his slacks…._

As soon as the exterior door had closed, all but one of the other officials headed for their offices. That one spun on his heel then stepped into Richardson's path, blocking his progress across the lobby.

_______C'mon, Tony—give me a break…._

The First Deputy Commissioner glared at the commissioner with such determination that Richardson recalled the phrase Arthur Branch often used to describe him.

_______Yes, he does look like a hungry vulture pissed that I'm still breathing…_

"What happened today at Manhattan SVU," Balzano said, "proves you should reconsider—"

Richardson scowled at his First Dep.

"We've been through this," he snapped. "It's settled."

"It shouldn't be. There are damn good reasons for leaving the status right where it is at quo. What you're planning will screw up—"

Richardson sidestepped around Balzano then turned his head to address him.

_______It's my cold shoulder stance… exactly what Tony deserves right now…._

"If you want to show your disapproval," he told the First Dep, "write a angry letter to the Times."

He left Balzano to grumble by the entrance, certain that the man would never do anything so disloyal to the department.

_______We run on tradition… if we cut our ties to the past, then we lose what makes us NYPD… the trick is to modify, modernize, move with the times while keeping our traditions alive… Tony doesn't understand how we must think and act globally nowadays… his world is still black and white, cops and robbers… anyone who sees a shade of gray or thinks the department can be fallible is not a cop in his sight… on the other hand, Tony is completely 'by the book'… I never have to worry about his ethics or his methods…._

Richardson crossed the lobby to the elevators where Michelle Young, his aide, was waiting for him.

"What's the latest?" he asked.

"Captain Cragen is in surgery," she replied. "Brooklyn South Homicide has detectives on the scene, and CSU is piecing together the timeline with Detective Benson. They should have something for you by eleven-thirty."

Richardson winced and his aide swallowed her smile at his reaction.

_______Yes, I hate all-nighters and this job, done right, has too many of them… at least the coffee is free…._

"Did Stabler get back to the One-Six?"

"According to Chief Conrad, he should be there by now. The Chief also told put him on administrative leave for a few days. He'll probably be at the hospital with his CO after Intel finishes with him."

Richardson nodded.

_______Unbelievable—the amount of crap landing on Manhattan SVU today… it's going to steal some thunder for my announcements tomorrow—I guess it can't be helped…._

"There's two more things," his aide told him. "O'Connor at DPCI had a call from Jerry Wilks at the Ledger. He wants to know if the Beale shooting has anything to do with Marc Newman's suicide."

Richardson froze with his hand an inch from the elevator call button.

"He asked what?"

"I checked," she replied. "Newman was with the DA's office. He hanged himself last year after being named to complete Frank Grotke's term up in Albany. Wilks covered that story. DPCI wants to know what to tell him. O'Connor kicked it to you."

He considered several options for response, including ignoring the reporter…

_______…but that never works…._

… then he pushed the elevator button.

"Do you have Wilks' number?" he asked.

His aide held up her Blackberry.

"Good. Tell O'Connor I'll handle this one myself. What's the other thing?"

"The Manhattan DA needs to see you right away. He says it's urgent."

_______No, it's not—not if it's about Beale… Arthur and Ed Wilson share responsibility for the Sex Crimes Bureau… the two of them can thrash out who falls on their sword for this one…._

"Call Branch and tell him to talk to the DCLM."

The elevator door opened. Richardson paused to let his aide enter first, but she paused to respond to his order..

"I can't," she said. "He's already in your office, and it's not about Beale—at least, not directly."

She turned her head toward the entrance, where Tony Balzano still was standing, his BlackBerry now to his ear. Richardson glanced from his aide to Balzano then back again.

_______I don't get it—you don't want Tony to hear or is this is about Tony?_

Unfortunately, his aide did not explain.

"Jack McCoy is with the DA," she continued, "and I made sure there is plenty of coffee."

"Thanks."

_______But right now, the last two things I need are more Balzano and one more crisis…._

When he arrived at his floor, Richardson used the nearest office phone to call Wilks.

_______The names of Beale's victims are locked down tight—even I don't know them yet—and not one name will be released until all have been contacted… no blindsiding of victims or their families on my watch…but, with Beale dead, I'm hoping to forego their public humiliation altogether… see if we can get away with naming only Newman as a victim… Ed's people are breaking the news to his family… if Wilks will sit on his story until they've been notified, we're good…._

_____J_erry Wilks had no problem with the stipulation, providing he broke the story first.

_______I'll have O'Connor call him after I meet with the detectives working this… it certainly won't hurt to have the Ledger's lead Albany reporter owing me a favor…._

Richardson arranged things with O'Connor at DPCI as his aide set a large mug of sugared coffee by the phone.

"I often wonder," he said, "how the Romans conquered the known world without caffeine."

"Fermented fish sauce, sir," his aide told him. "They called it _garum_ and they used it on everything."

_You've got to be kidding…._

Nothing in Michelle's earnest expression showed she was kidding.

"I think I'll stick to coffee—and ketchup."

Richardson then took his mug and, bearing it like a shield before him, he went to the conference room adjoining his private office. His aide had seated the DA and his EADA there; both men stood to greet him, although they all cut the pleasantries short.

As soon as they were seated again, Richardson on one side of the table, Branch and McCoy across from him., Richardson asked what was on the DA's mind.

Branch folded his hands on the table before him and sighed.

"Tim, I hate to do this to you," he said, his voice thick with weariness and sorrow. "There's enough brambles in the pea patch as it is; you don't need any more of them."

Richardson drew in breath to tell him to cut the cornpone, but Branch continued, "You should know that one of Andrew's victims was Paul Balzano."

Hearing the name of Tony Balzano's only son froze Richardson to his core.

_______I figured I might recognize the names of one or two of the victims, but Tony's boy? _

"Good God, Arthur. Tell me you're kidding."

Branch shook his head slowly.

"Wish I were. I also wish that news was the worst of what I have to tell you."

Richardson braced himself, certain he was about to learn of another suicide.

"You also should know that Andrew may have been blackmailing Tony Balzano with that rape of his son, forcing him to give orders and take actions that will reflect badly on the department once they come to light."

_______Holy shit… what asshole did you pull that out of? Tony would never knuckle under to blackmail… he'd have gone after Beale with guns blazing and all of ESU at his back… the whole idea is crap…._

Richardson leaned forward, his finger aimed at the DA. His time in front of microphones bowdlerized his words, but not his anger at the accusation.

"That's ridiculous. You'd better have something to back that claim."

Branch turned to McCoy, who gave his boss a "Thanks a lot" glare before speaking.

"We think Beale demanded the firing of Joseph Fontana, the homicide detective with all the complaints."

"Wait a minute," Richardson said, interrupting him, "Tony and I discussed that matter, and I agreed with his handling of it. The number of complaints of force against Fontana and the way they were hidden—"

McCoy drew himself upright in his chair and raised his eyebrows in a show of extreme indignation.

"Did you know that Fontana had seen Beale having sex with a young man bound in chains at a sex resort in New Hampshire? Or that Fontana was spending lots of time visiting his fiancée in the SV unit at the same time Beale was working his charms on Captain Cragen?"

He paused for effect then continued, "We think Beale recognized Fontana in the SVU squadroom, and realized he was both a cop and a major threat to his plans. That's motive. Opportunity was Fontana's shooting review and Beale's tape of Paul Balzano. Put all of them together and we get means—Beale sending the recording to Balzano and demanding he fire Fontana to get him out of the picture."

Richardson shook his head to deny McCoy's theory.

_______Tony is too damn 'blue' to screw over a fellow cop… I don't care how hard someone leaned on him…._

"Sounds damn flimsy to me," Richardson replied. "Besides, Tony would never—"

"Tim, there's more," Branch insisted. "Tell him, Jack."

Richardson listened as McCoy told of the calls Beale made to the secretary at the Northern DA's office, the faxing of Fontana's psych evaluation, the involvement of Bronx DA Fernando Martinez and his friendship with Beale, and the lack of protection given Fontana after he receiving his death threats, all of which McCoy put on Balzano as the purported results of Beale's blackmail.

_______I read Fontana's jacket when Tony and I discussed his termination—good close rate, but too many complaints and shortcuts… I can tell by Jack's choice of words and his sneer when he says Fontana's name that he hates the man… I also know Fernando Martinez is the vindictive sort and he dealt with Fontana for five times as long as McCoy has… it's easer to picture Fernando getting his friend Beale to ask Tony for a favor than to believe this pile of shit…._

"Arthur, I'm not buying it," Richardson told the DA. "All you have is a bunch of puzzle pieces that you're forcing to fit together. I know Tony; he'd never let himself be blackmailed."

Branch glanced at McCoy. By the way the EADA shook his head, Richardson gathered the EADA was not surprised by the commissioner's disbelief.

_______Good... then let's drop this so I can get back to real problems…._

The DA, however, set his jaw in a stubborn frown.

"I know hard evidence here," Branch said "is almost as scarce as guano in a cuckoo clock but—"

A rap on the door interrupted the DA. It was followed by the door opening and Richardson's aide poking her head through its gap.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she told the three men, "but there's a Randolph Dworkin on the line for you, sir. He says he represents Joseph Fontana, and he wants to talk to you about this."

Her hand came through the opening and moved in a circular motion to indicate the topic being discussed in the conference room. Richardson turned to face the DA.

"Is this from you?" he demanded.

He saw Arthur turn to McCoy, who shook his head in reply.

"Not me, Arthur," he assured his boss. "I didn't say a word to anyone about this."

"Me, neither," the DA then said to Richardson. "Must have been SVU—Stabler or Benson telling Otten then her telling Fontana."

Richardson grimaced then he pointed to the conference phone at the far end of the long table.

"Put it through, Michelle," he told his aide. "Let's see what he wants."

He moved to a chair by the phone then punched a couple of buttons. A low hiss of static told him the line was live.

"Counselor?" he said. "Tim Richardson here. I have Arthur Branch and Jack McCoy with me."

_______"Good. All we need is a caller and we can square-dance. Now, about Beale and Balzano—"_

"We were just discussing the possibility of blackmail."

Richardson repeated what McCoy had told him, noted Branch's nod and smile rewarding his accuracy.

_______Hey, I can recite it without agreeing with any of it…._

He then asked if Dworkin had anything substantive to add to the list.

_______Because, if you don't, this phone call ends here…._

The slight pause before Dworkin replied raised Richardson's hope. His reply jacked them even higher.

_______"I'm sure you know how your second-in-command is stonewalling my attempts to build an appeal for my client. It's as though he has something to hide."_

"Or that keeping this city safe and secure requires his time and attention," Richardson countered.

_______"There is that,"_ Dworkin admitted. _______"But there's also an official, certified copy of my client's personnel file that was delivered via inter-precinct mail to his partner the day after he was—well, let me put it delicately and say 'kicked to the curb like yesterday's garbage.'"_

Branch snorted at Dworkin's choice of words. McCoy scowled.

_______"I don't think a lowly file clerk could manage such a feat, but the First Deputy Commissioner could and he might, if it helped right a wrong committed by him under the extreme duress of blackmail."_

"Randy," McCoy cut in, "you're assuming an awful lot here."

_______"Yes, I am…"_

The voice on the speaker sounded very pleased with itself.

_______"… but I also know Balzano spoke with Detective Otten a month later, after my client was so horribly injured in those undeserved attempts on his life. He told her, and I quote: _'Meglee-o solly che mal-lay accompag-natty.'"

Richardson winced at his mangling of the Italian proverb.

"Dworkin," Branched boomed at the conference phone, "even I know that was terrible."

_______"It sounded lovely when Fontana said it. According to him, it means 'It's better to be alone than with bad companions.' Both my client and his fiancée took it as a threat, Fontana being the bad companion, but I disagree. I think it means, 'Help, I'm with bad companions and they're blackmailing me.' Call it a cry for help from a man who was being squeezed by the brutal demands of his son's rapist."  
_  
Richardson met the DA's gaze then shook his head.

_______It's not enough to convince me… but I will look into that mysterious personnel file… Dworkin's right—no clerk could have managed that…._

Branch tipped his head and frowned at the commissioner. McCoy shrugged away his disappointment.

"Counselor," the commissioner told Dworkin, "I'm still considering how to handle this matter. Will you be satisfied for now with a promise that you will be involved in any meetings I have with Deputy Commissioner Balzano regarding this?"

The exaggerated sigh that came through the phone's speaker made McCoy roll his eyes. Richardson hid a smile.

_______"I suppose so. It's better than finding bacon in my borscht. Can I expect a call from you any time soon, like say tomorrow?"_

McCoy's eyes completed another circuit. Richardson scowled at the conference phone.

"This isn't the only thing on my plate right now. When I decide, I'll have my aide call you."

_______"Fair enough. Jack, Arthur—my condolences. I know Beale was a colleague and a friend—that is, before you found out he was a blackmailing rapist, but all life is valuable and he did do good as a prosecutor. Commissioner, my client and I will await your call."_

The click of the connection closing signaled the end of Dworkin's call.


	32. Testing the Theory

BlackBerry®, Thermos®, and Doritos® are trademarked names

Dog and pony show: derisive term describing a presentation

Maelstrom: powerful whirlpool

DC: here, Deputy Commissioner

DCPI: here, it refers to the deputy commissioner in charge of the NYPD's Public Information Office

Yes, PIN means 'Personal Identification Number,' but everyone says 'PIN number' anyway

HIPAA: the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996; the rules that keep unauthorized people from getting your medical history and information

Riprap: the rock rubble that protects shorelines from the action of the water

Characters still are swearing in this chapter.

Office of the Commissioner, NYPD  
15 August (Sunday) 10:49 p.m.

As far as Tim Richardson was concerned, the _click_ of Dworkin's hanging-up ended further discussion of the Fontana matter for the evening.

_The blackmail is a load of crap, but Branch's news about Paul Balzano does present a problem… I can't have Tony at the crime reconstruction… the detectives will describe Beale's attack on Newman and his planned attack on Cragen… with his son being one of Beale's victims, I can't put Tony through that…._

The commissioner glanced at Branch and McCoy across the table from him. Both had their gazes pinned on Richardson as though waiting for a chance to pounce. He deliberately looked at his watch, a move calculated to point up the few minutes remaining before they had to leave for Bensonhurst and the crime scene.

_It's time I called their bluff… use the time crunch to force them to do this my way…._

"Now that I know about Paul Balzano," he told them, "I can't have Tony come with us to Cragen's."

He watched as the DA's jowls sagged, an expression of dismay that quickly shifted into a bland poker face.

_I thought so… you wanted to see if watching Beale's rape of Newman will make Tony crack and admit to being blackmailed… but you don't get to put my people on the stand—not until after they're charged…._

Richardson hid his anger at the DA's ruthlessness behind his own bland expression while Branch shook his head at the decision.

"If he doesn't know what Beale did to his son," Branch said, "then that recording won't affect him any more than it will the rest of us."

Next to him, McCoy muttered, "Which means he'll have nightmares."

Richardson then rose from his chair.

"Come with me while I break the news to him. You've already seen the evidence so you can answer any questions better than I can."

_And you'll learn what a mistake you've made…._

McCoy's eyebrows shot up his forehead.

"You're going to tell him? Now?"

Richardson strode to the door before turning around to face the EADA.

"Better it comes from me than some stranger from your office—not to slam you or your people, but you know how it is."

Branch pursed his lips, but did not voice a comment as he rose to his feet. The three men, Richardson in the lead, made their way down the hall to the First Deputy Commissioner's office suite. There, they found Anthony Balzano perched on the side of his tidy oak desk with his BlackBerry to his ear. To Richardson's left, the ornate grandfather clock was striking the hour, its deep gongs ignored by Balzano.

"No, dear," he was saying, "I don't see me getting home any time soon."

He greeted the three men with a nod.

"I'll do that. You sleep well. G'night."

He held up the BlackBerry, face toward the three men.

"Jeez," he complained, "after being married to a cop for all these years, you'd think Silvia would understand me working late. Is it time to go?"

Richardson crossed the office to stand a few feet in from of the First Dep. He noticed that Branch and McCoy were hanging back by the closed door.

_Cowards… they've probably heard about Tony's famous blow-ups… cursing, stomping around, his hands waving everywhere… their gestures matching the threats he's shouting… it's not an act to show how tough he is… every set-back is a personal affront to him…._

"In a few minutes," the commissioner said in reply. "You should know—Arthur brought me the list of Beale's victims."

Balzano busied himself with slipping his BlackBerry into its case on his belt.

"Poor jerks. How many are there?"

Richardson braced himself for the hard part.

"Tony, one of them is Paul."

Balzano froze with his hands still on the leather pouch.

"How do you know?" he asked.

Richardson heard footsteps behind him then the DA was at his side. Branch told how Beale had named each of his victims for the camera, and that one of his investigators had recognized the younger Balzano when he saw the recording of the attack. Balzano held perfectly still while the DA spoke, but the focus of his gaze dropped to the carpet by Richardson's feet.

_I thought he'd be flying around the room cursing Beale's name and ancestry… he must be in shock… too stunned to—_

Balzano interrupted the commissioner's thoughts.

"You saw this when? Was it today?"

From the doorway, McCoy answered, "Earlier this evening. The recording was found hidden with several others during a search of Beale's place conducted this afternoon."

Balzano's only reaction to Jack's info was a stiffening of his jaw.

"Who knows?" he asked.

McCoy answered from behind Richardson.

"The four of us, the investigators who worked this case, and my ADA. They all know to be discreet about it."

Balzano's head jerked up, giving Richardson a good view of his face.

_He almost looks hopeful… this isn't what I expected…._

"My God," he said. "My son. My Paulie. What Andrew did to him…."

He paused to swallow hard twice.

"But now he's dead," he said, his face turning first toward the commissioner then the DA, "there's no reason to bring Paulie into it. I mean, if no one talks, and Paulie never finds out, and he doesn't remember anything, then it's as good as if it never happened to him, right?"

Richardson glanced at the DA, who replied, "I see no reason to mention your son—no reason at all. Jack?"

"We have Newman and Cragen," McCoy added. "They should be enough to explain things."

Balzano's mouth twitched into a semblance of a smile.

"Thanks. You don't know what I owe for you this. Tim, you mind if I skip the field trip? I really don't think I want to—"

Richardson heard Arthur clear his throat as McCoy joined the two men where they stood in the center of the office.

_No, you don't—I'm handling this… and I'm as concerned about his reaction as you are…so, damn you, I'm going to hit him hard… if I have to apologize later for being wrong, so be it…._

"Tony," he said, "there is another matter…."

Balzano raised an eyebrow.

"Jeez, you'd think we had enough crap on our plates already. What is it now?"

Richardson braced himself.

"During the investigation," he said, rushing his words, "detectives found evidence that Beale forced you to fire Joseph Fontana."

He held his hands out, palms up, as though offering help.

"If Beale was blackmailing you—if he coerced you to terminate Fontana—"

Balzano slid from his perch on his desk. He landed on his toes, ready to tackle everyone in his way.

"So that's the plan?" he snarled. "You're using what Beale did to my son to run me out of here? You're going to trump up charges against me so I can't say 'I told you so' when your precious reorg goes tits-up."

His vehemence rocked Richardson.

"This has nothing to do with the reorg," Richardson shot back. "Damn it, Tony—I'm trying to help."

"And there's nothing to trump up," Branch informed him. "We have the phone calls and the faxes—"

Balzano balled his fists.

"You got nothing but bullshit. My son gets raped, and you twist things until I'm taking it up the ass, too. Fuck you. Fuck all of—"

He froze, his mouth still forming the final word of his curse, then he hunched forward as though gut-punched. Richardson reached out to steady him, but Balzano shook off his assistance. Seconds passed, each ticked away by the grandfather clock, before Balzano drew in a deep breath and spoke again.

"He said," he whispered, pain thickening his voice, "he said he'd send Sylvia the photos."

His gaze swept the room, taking in the commendations, the certificates, the framed pictures of him with the famous and important. By the time he turned back to the commissioner, his eyes had gone dead.

_God, Tony… I wanted to be wrong…._

"Name the time and the place," he continued, "and you'll learn everything."

"You'll need your attorney present," McCoy told him, "and we'll all need time to prepare."

Balzano's head jerked, a motion Richardson took as agreement. He then glanced at the DA next to him.

_Damn you for being right…._

Nothing in the DA's expression showed joy in his justification.

"I think," Branch said, "our breakfast plates are already full. How about afternoon?"

Richardson nodded.

_The sooner the better…._

"Then let's make it one o'clock, my office. Tony, you're on leave until we sort this out, but I promise we'll make it quick, and we'll keep Paul's name out of it."

Balzano's lips formed a silent "Thank you" then he walked around the three men and left his office. Richardson immediately took out his cell phone and called his aide.

"Michelle? I'm in the First Dep's office and I need it secured. Also tell Cartwright that Tony is not to re-enter this building until afternoon tomorrow."

He ended the call before she could ask any questions.

_I think I can trust Tony to stay away from the media… and their questions…._

Richardson then turned to the DA.

"I hate to say it, Arthur—"

"Then don't," Branch replied. "None of us wanted to be right about this. What's worse, he bought a pig in a poke. He did what Andrew demanded, and he got nothing for his effort."

"But he did create a huge PR nightmare for the department," McCoy added. "A corrupted First Deputy Commissioner, and a wrongfully terminated detective with deep enough pockets to fund the mother-of-all-lawsuits. Tim, I don't envy you."

Richardson frowned at McCoy's bluntness.

_You just watched a broken man walk away from his life's work… yes, the timing on this stinks but, for God's sake, have some compassion…._

He settled for a frown in McCoy's direction.

"Enough of this," he told the others. "We need to get going."

_One problem at a time… sooner or later, we'll get them all cleared away…._

Kings County Hospital Center  
16 August (Monday) 12:49 p.m.

Stabler finished up with the investigative team at the One-Six around eleven-thirty.

_Nice guys—they let me grab a fast shower and some clean clothes before I talked to them… almost felt human afterward…._

He then finished out the shift with Lake in Robbery's squadroom.

_Lt. Crenshaw was good enough to give us a desk and two chairs… I couldn't sit where I could see Eshan's blood on the wall… I kept picturing his face in front of it… Chester asked how I was doing… I said 'Fine,' but he knew I was lying..._

From Robbery, he had called Loudoun, Brewster, Sofarelli, Benson, and Kathy.

_Munch is good… asleep, not unconscious… Donna said she was heading home for a few hours… she still needs to find out from him what went down in Dover's apartment… I caught Howie at home—he said Fin was pissed about spending the night at Mercy… he wants to be at Kings County waiting for news… yeah, him and me both…._

Couch had told Elliot that Cragen was still in surgery, but the word was things were going well. He also said that nothing had hit the media about the shooting.

_Someone must have clamped down hard… Richardson and Branch buying time to decide the right spin for it… When I reached Olivia, she cut my call short… she had to start her dog-and pony show… as soon as she wraps things up at Cap's, she's heading to the hospital…._

He had left his call to Kathy for last. She answered on the second ring and the concern in her voice eased some of his anguish.

_She told me Chester had filled her in on the incident here, but she didn't know about Cap until I told her… all she said was 'Oh, God' and then asked what she could do to help… no cold shoulder… no arguing… I think she understood… damn, that felt good…._

Elliot had told her everything was fine.

_She said she knew better then she asked if I had eaten and if I needed a change of clothes… I tried to say it was too late for her to be out, but I got out-maneuvered… she said she'd meet me outside the precinct house… and she did, with a hug I really needed and a cooler filled with meatloaf sandwiches and slices of chocolate layer cake... I asked if she wanted to ride with me to the hospital, but she said Richard and Lizzie had soccer practice first thing in the morning—tryouts for the school teams are next week… I had to settle for another hug and Kathy telling me she was praying for Cap, Fin, John, and also me and Liv…. _

Which is why he was sitting on a cement bench on the south side of Kings County Hospital with a thick meatloaf sandwich in his hands. Next to him, his partner nibbled on a forkful of chocolate frosting. Outdoor security lamps, bright sodium yellow filtered through the branches of trees overhead, banished the darkness and were reflected in the foam cups of hospital coffee they had brought out with them.

_We left the rest of the sandwiches and cake inside… the way everyone pounced on the cooler, you'd think they were piranhas, not cops…._

Olivia licked the last of the frosting from her fork then said, "Did you see the dark-haired woman sitting by Don's sister?"

"I think so," he replied. "I went over and said, 'Hi,' but I wasn't really paying attention."

_I'm tired of watching what I can say to people… too many things have to stay secret for small talk to work right…. _

"Then you missed Tullia Horne," his partner informed him. "Judith thinks the Cragens called her because they greeted her by name when she arrived."

_I missed Cap's girlfriend? Damn…._

"Shows how tired I am," he replied.

"Yeah, me too. You ready to hear what happened?" she asked.

Elliot took a bite of his sandwich then said he was ready.

_She started by telling me who was present: Richardson, Branch, McCoy, the DC for Legal Matters, and the DCPI—no Balzano and she didn't know why… ADA Borgia arrived halfway through—Branch sent his car to get her from here after he arrived… Liv said she began with the recording of Beale's attack on Newman, which gave everyone Beale's MO… Branch then filled everyone in on Cragen's suspicions about Beale and how it was addressed then he handed it back to Liv for Fontana's part in it…._

"Any one make the leap from Fontana and Beale to the First Dep?"

Olivia shook her head.

"They were too busy," she said, "wondering how to cover their collective asses for hiring Beale and promoting him to bureau chief."

_We both laughed at that one—it shouldn't be funny, but it is… she then said she moved on to today's events—Cap and Beale at Yankees Stadium then back at Cap's house for dinner… She told them that CSU found Cap's landline unplugged, and only two message on his home phone—one from me from mid-afternoon and one from Ms. Horne… CSU thinks Beale guessed the PIN number for the phone then deleted all our messages… the tech told Liv it's usually the factory default or a birthday or, for cops, a badge number…._

Stabler paused in his chewing. Next to him, Olivia also was looking sheepish.

"Yeah," Olivia said. "I need to change mine, too. Anyway…."

_She then told everyone how someone had smashed the hell out of Cap's cell phone… CSU found it on a table in the hall along with his keys and pocket change… they also found bits of plastic embedded in the heal of Beale's left loafer… wonder how the hell he managed that?_

"Any word on why the Six-Two ignored Chester's request for a drive-by?" Elliot asked.

Olivia sipped her coffee before saying, "Their desk sergeant got a memo from the First Dep requesting him to not disturb Don for any reason. He said that usually meant the bigwigs were throwing a party that might get rowdy."

The news sucked the flavor from Kathy's meatloaf. Elliot quickly gulped down his now-tasteless mouthful as his fingers tightened around his sandwich.

"I know there's no love lost between Balzano and Cragen," he said, "But holy shit—he set Cap up."

He threw the mashed remains of his sandwich in the trash receptacle next to the bench with so much force, it thumped against the far side of the can.

"What happened next?" he asked.

_Liv told me she took them upstairs and showed them Don's bedroom… on his dresser were two packs of the same brand of condoms, and a bottle of the same brand of lubricant as Beale had used with Newman…. right next to those items was a small video camera…._

"CSU also found a webcam," she said, "inside a stack of folded t-shirts. It was hooked up to Don's computer, and it showed Beale putting those items on the dresser."

"Cap set up surveillance on himself?"

"Looks like," Olivia told him. "CSU found two more webcams, one recording the backyard, and one in the living room. They also found two tablets of _flunitrazepam _in a glass vial hidden inside a spice jar marked 'Sumac- ground 5/07.' The jar didn't match the ones Don has in his cupboards so we're assuming Beale brought it with him.

"Roofies,'" Elliot told her. "Figures."

"From the living room webcam," she continued, "we got audio of the argument leading up to the shooting. I heard Don turn down a cup of coffee, and Beale insist he drink it. The techs had to amplify the sound for the next bit, but it sounds like Don put the coffee by the sink after saying he was dumping it down the drain. Next up was the sound of furniture crashing around and Don yelling 'Drop it!' then the shooting began—"

Elliot's cell phone rang, interrupting his partner. He took it from his pocket and checked its display.

"Couch," he said. "He said he'd call when Cap was out of surgery."

"Is it good news?" Olivia asked.

"Don't know. The doctor's talking to Cap's family first."

Olivia winced as she threw away her trash. They hurried through the hospital to the hall outside the waiting room, where they found Cragen's mother crying and hugging her daughter and Tullia.

_Those better be happy tears…._

"Elliot, Olivia" he heard Couch's voice call, "in here."

They rounded the corner to find their colleagues and their captain's friends gathered around a civilian with a notepad in his hands.

"Sam McGuire," he introduced himself with an outstretched hand. "Don's my brother-in-law. I was about to tell everyone what the doctor told us. Don't worry; it's good news."

He opened the pad and began reading.

_Splenorrhaphy, hepatic resection, arteriorraphy, colonic resection, saline irrigation…a butt load of medical jargon… in plain English, the doctors repaired Cap's spleen, liver, a nicked artery, and removed part of his small intestine then they washed out his abdomen to prevent infection… he'll be in recovery until morning then, if all goes well, he should be home by Friday…._

Elliot's sigh of relief joined the collective exhalations around him.

_A lot of prayers got answered tonight…._

McGuire handed the notepad back to Couch, who pocketed it.

"I'm sorry you had to wait," he told those listening. "I'd have had you with us, but the rules—"

His apology was waved off by everyone.

"It's okay," Elliot told him. "We run into HIPAA all the time."

Cerreta, the retired detective, added, "Should have had that ADA get us a warrant for Donnie's medical records. It would have saved us the wait."

After chuckles and thanks to McGuire, the group broke up. Kidman and Cerreta headed out first, then the family with Mrs. Horne. The four SVU detectives remained behind to talk. Elliot eyed the only other occupant of the room until Judith explained his presence.

_Her bodyguard… damn, I wish I knew what was going down with Balzano on this… before either of them could start asking questions, Liv switched to shift lead mode and told Couch and Judith to go get some sleep… with Cap, Fin, and John out, it's going to be a rough shift…._

"At least," Judith noted. "we're not working day shift. Things could be worse. Couch, let me know what happens."

She picked up a plastic bag and smiled wearily at them in farewell then Judith followed her bodyguard from the waiting room while Elliot puzzled over her request.

"The promotion list," Olivia said, supplying the context for him. "The thing that started this shit storm."

"Yeah," Couch replied, "and it comes out at eight o'clock so I'd better get going."

Elliot added his good wishes to Olivia's as they said their good-byes. As soon as they were alone, Elliot turned to his partner.

"You know, Beale must have known Cap was on the list. I wonder how—"

Olivia raised her hand, palm down, to her nose."

"Elliot," she said, "I've had it up to here with Beale. I'm going home to try and get some sleep. Why don't we meet back here tomorrow to see if we can get Don's account of what went down today?"

_It was the best idea I'd heard all day… go home… get some sleep… God, I hope Eshan's face and Cap's blood on my hands leave me alone tonight…._

Louis Valentino, Jr Park  
Red Hook, NY  
16 August (Monday) 5:20 a.m.

When he walked out of One Police Plaza, Tony Balzano knew that everyone had assumed he would go home.

_Home, with all our photos of Paulie—his mother holding him at the hospital, his first bath, his baptism, his first steps, his first day at school, his First Communion, his first time serving the altar, the candle lighter almost as tall as he was… his team pictures, school pictures, graduation pictures… our only child… my son… the baby I held when I swore to him I'd be the best father ever… how I'd protect him and keep him safe… a promise like that never ends—not even when he's grown…._

He stopped at an all-night coffee shop, carrying his briefcase in with him. In a booth near the back, while his coffee cooled untouched in its cup, he attempted to sketch out the rationale for his actions on a legal pad.

_My lawyer will need to know… and Tim and Arthur… I don't want Sylvia and Paulie to know, but it can't be helped now…._

Once he had everything organized, he then drove home, but not to his residence on the Upper West Side.

_Sylvia is there… she's sleeping… no idea what's coming at her… I failed her as much as I did Paulie… I didn't keep our precious little boy safe…._

He crossed the Brooklyn Bridge then turned south, taking the surface roads until he reached Red Hook .

_This is where I grew up… the city's trash and body-dump… it smells different now… looks different… Red Hook is trendy now… _

He drove past the vacant lot that had been his home growing up and, two blocks away, the church where his family had attended Mass, the Spanish on its sign acknowledging how his departure from the neighborhood had been part of an exodus of upwardly-mobile members of his generation.

_We went looking for safer streets for our kids… better schools and finer churches… we wanted more for them… college degrees, lucrative careers, the best of the best… I got all that for Paulie and then this… and then this…._

He drove slowly down Beard Street, looking for remembered places.

_They're all gone now… the warehouses that stored supplies for the Civil War, Spanish-American Way, WWI and WWII… buried somewhere under that IKEA store… same with the wharves where my dad and his brothers worked unloading the cargo ships…when the container ships took their place, Dad told me to find something else… he didn't want me to follow his footsteps—he knew they led to a dead-end… I made him proud when I joined the NYPD… he respected the police… he respected family, tradition, and honor… he raised me to respect them, too…._

He cut over to Van Dyke and headed northwest. The brick street ended at a small city park overlooking the Upper Bay. The low gate blocking the path was no obstacle. He climbed over it then walked to the riprap at the water's edge. The silver lights on the fishing pier, and the city lights of Manhattan and Jersey ringed his horizon with Lady Liberty centered among them, the statue gleaming green and gold before him. He dropped his gaze to the dark water at his feet, too ashamed to face her stern visage.

_The envelope was found on the floor of our building's lobby—addressed to me but not stamped… our doorman thought maybe I had accidently dropped it… it contained a hand-printed letter and color photos of a blurry figure sodomizing my son… I recognized the place as Paulie's dorm room… he was passed out on his bed… the man attacking him was blurred, but I could still tell what he was doing to my boy… I cursed that man… I cursed the mother that bore him, and his father, and his father's father—all of his ancestors, may they burn in Hell forever… then I read the letter…._

A wave slapped the riprap and dampened his shoes. He paid the wet leather no mind.

_It said, if I fired Fontana, all the evidence would be sent to me… I could see me burning it, grinding the ashes underfoot… but, if I didn't fire Fontana, copies of the photos would be sent to my wife… she loves Paulie… she lives for our son… those photos would kill her and I'd have failed my family twice… when I ran out of curses again, I realized the truth… Paulie had been drugged… he didn't know what had been done to him… it was like it never happened… I had to keep this secret… to do what the letter demanded… it was the only way I could protect my Paulie… Fontana had money… he didn't need the job… he was NYPD, but he's not family… then another letter came, this one wanting me to make trouble for Cragen … after what he did to O'Farrell and Sullivan… hell, the traitor deserved it…._

An early-morning jogger ran behind him, following the path along the water. He paid the runner no attention as he stared at the water lapping the chucks of concrete under his feet.

_Then I find out it was all lies… now, everyone knows about Paulie… they know how I failed him.… _

The sky over him began to brighten with the rose hues of dawn. To his back was the rising sun and the remnants of the neighborhood that had raised him. To his right, across Buttermilk Channel and the East River, were his home and family, his career, his place in society, and the expectation that he would be in the police commissioner's office at one o'clock that day.

_I'm sorry, Tim… I'm sorry, Sylvia… Paulie, I'm so very sorry… forgive me…._

He kicked off his shoes and removed his belt then he stripped off his navy golf shirt, folding it so that the NYPD logo on its left breast was hidden from view. He then crossed the concrete riprap that protected the shore and entered the water. When it reached his chest, he began to swim toward the far shore.


	33. Monday, Monday: Part One

Lt. Pat Monaghan: the Manhattan Homicide lieutenant from the shift opposite Van Buren's (other original character first mentioned in "Corrosive")

The format and procedures for NYPD promotion announcements are taken from actual FINEST messages from 2003 and 2004.

SID: Special Investigations Division

Tax reg number: Badge numbers are reused and lieutenants and above do not have numbered shields so tax registry numbers are used as unique identifier for NYPD personnel.

Eight-Three: a Brooklyn precinct

Mealy-mouthed: unable or unwilling to speak plainly due to timidity or hypocrisy

PBBS: Patrol Borough Brooklyn South, which includes Red Hook in the 76th Precinct.

Onions: here, slang for testicles

CNR: The College of New Rochelle, a Catholic women's college in New Rochelle, NY

_Scopa_: an Italian card game. From Wikipedia: 'The name is an Italian verb meaning "to sweep", since taking a _scopa_ means "to sweep" all the cards from the pool. Watching a game of scopa can be highly entertaining an activity, since maintaining that lively and colorful, and somewhat strong-worded, banter in between hands is a vital part of the game. However, skill and chance are more important than the outcome of the game.'

Events in this story move faster than they would in Real Life. Procedures and rulings in this story are designed to reflect the needs of the story, not the realities of the NYPD or the DA's office. Ardent E/O 'shippers might want to skip the last section.

Characters curse in this chapter.

Bellevue Hospital  
16 August (Monday) 6:12 a.m.

The room was dimly lit and a little out-of-focus, but John Munch still recognized where he was.

_I'm in a hospital room… I'm in a hospital bed… I have a hangover that belongs in the record books and a dorky hospital gown... why?_

John tried to sit up, but a sharp pain inside his skull and a sudden wave of nausea convinced him to stay supine. He closed his eyes and waited for the pain to subside so he could think.

_Benson gave us a body… a woman in her twenties… bludgeoned and raped… this pillow is lumpy… Loudoun and I visited her boyfriend... he tried to slam the door on my foot before bolting for the fire escape … wonder what time it is… it's kind of pink outside that window… late evening… could be early morning… I chewed him out for not having air conditioning… after that, he was very amenable… a really nice guy—even confessed to our rape and murder… I was standing in his kitchen waiting for the RMP to arrive… but then what? I don't know… and where are my glasses?_

He checked every flat surface in the room, slowly turning his head to look at every wall and corner.

_Every thing—stop moving… you're making me seasick… no glasses… they should be on that table by the phone… I don't see my cell phone, either… or my shield and weapon… or my wallet… or my cell phone… I know I'd have put them by the phone… I need my phone… can't think why, but I need it…._

John was not sure how long he lay wondering where, but the sky outside his window had brightened appreciably by the time Donna Loudoun tiptoed into his room.

_She looks awful… I think she was wearing that shirt yesterday… early today… whenever…._

Loudoun stopped at the foot of his bed. John raised a hand to wave at her.

_Damn it… even waving makes the room rock…._

"You're awake," she greeted him. "How do you feel?"

_With my fingers… but sarcasm hurts, too…._

"It's like someone is throwing knives inside my head."

"Post concussive syndrome," she told him. "Main symptom is a headache."

"I have a concussion?"

She nodded. "Do you feel dizzy, queasy, or confused?"

"B and C," John replied, "with a side of A. What happened?"

Loudoun pulled a chair to the side of his bed then perched on its seat.

"I was hoping you'd tell me, but the doctor said pre-event amnesia was a possibility. What do you remember?"

"I was…," John said, his speech slowing as he struggled to find the right words, "I was standing in—in someone's kitchen."

He paused for her to fill in the blanks.

"William J. Carson," Loudoun told him. "We arrested him for raping and killing his girlfriend."

"Carson," John repeated, "I was in Carson's kitchen. You were wearing that blouse."

Loudoun let out a sigh.

"It's Monday morning and I haven't been home yet. You really don't remember anything after arresting Carson Sunday morning?"

"I'm not sure I remember anything before then, either," John admitted. "It hurts too much to think."

"What about Dover and the little Chinese girl?" she asked him.

"You mean Amy Choi? We can't have seen her. She's dead."

He saw Loudoun wince.

"You'd better brace yourself," she warned him. "A lot has happened since yesterday morning."

She told Munch about his plan to impersonate a pedophile, and how he was found unconscious in Dover's apartment with Dover dead on top of him.

_I did? I was? Really? _

"I don't remember any of that," he said.

"Then it's a good thing you had a witness," Loudoun said as she pulled out her notepad to read from it. "Julie—that's the little girl—she told me: 'The policeman pulled out his badge and a gun and Fredmeister jumped on him. The policeman shot his gun and they fell over. I hid under the bedspread because I was scared Fredmeister was alive and the policeman was dead.'"

John closed his eyes and tried to remember, but nothing resembling Loudoun's story came to mind.

_'Fredmeister'… what kind of a sick bastard calls himself that?_

"You're right," he said. "A lot did happen."

"But," Donna said, "that's not all of it. About the time I was finding you out cold on Dover's floor, Fin was stopping a suicide bomber back at the house."

Loudoun described the attempted bombing, but John's brain refused to latch onto the facts. Before he could admit nothing in her story made sense, Donna told him what had happened with Cragen and Beale.

_Fin is hurt… Beale is dead… and Don is… Don is… but didn't he ask me… to call him? Wish my head would stop pounding—I can't think…._

"I was supposed to call Don—wasn't I?"

Donna shrugged at his question.

"Even if you were," she replied, "Olivia said Beale deleted the captain's messages and unplugged his phones. Nobody's calls got through."

She then got out of her chair and walked over to John's bedside.

"The only good thing about yesterday," she told him, "is the good guys will recover and the bad guys are dead. Now, I have to go home and get some sleep. I spent the night tidying up after you then I was at the Tenth getting Carson's confession—"

"But… my glasses—my phone," he interrupted her, cursing himself for the whine.

Donna reached into her jacket pocket and brought forth his glasses.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Shows how tired I am. You can't have your cell here. I found out yesterday it's against the rules. Your weapon is at Ballistics, and I have your shield and your other things in my car. Okay?"

John slid his glasses on before attempting a nod.

_Ouch…._

"Now," Donna continued, "do you need me to stay? I know Connie is planning to stop by on her way to work."

The thought of Connie made John smile.

_I like red hair…._

"I'll take that as a 'no,'" Donna said, "which is good because I'm dead on my feet. I'll stop back this afternoon before shift starts."

She reached out to touch the sleeve of his hospital gown.

"You gave me quite a scare," she said. "Please don't do that again."

Before John could respond, Donna turned on her heel and left, leaving him alone in his no longer fuzzy hospital room.

_Guess I'm finally winning her over… but I don't remember any of what she said… and Fin…reckless, brave Fin… maybe I should call him… no, I should call Don… I'm supposed to call Don… it was important… it was…._

He drifted off to dream of phone calls, their unanswered rings echoing inside his skull.

Residence of Donald and Anita Van Buren  
16 August 8:08 a.m.

They were at the kitchen table, cups of coffee and plates of toast before each of them. Between them sat some of the milk glass collected by Anita's mother, her hobnailed salt and pepper shakers, a fan-shaped vase for paper napkins, and the sugar bowl that held the sweetener for their coffee. Donald was dressed for work in jeans and a work shirt with his store's logo above its pocket, Anita in her favorite fuzzy robe, both of them enjoying the quiet caused by their sons' decisions to sleep in that Monday.

_I don't do this as much as I want to… every day of every other month, I'm gone before Donald gets up… it's good to sit with him and talk before our days get started…._

"So," she said, "it's inventory this week?"

Her husband growled at the thought of counting every nut and bolt in his hardware store.

"Got to make sure we're good on the shelves before the Labor Day promotions," he told her. "At least, that's what corporate says."

Anita reached across the table to pat his hand.

"It's only once a year," she told him. "You'll manage."

His grimace twisted into a wry smile.

"This," he said, "from the woman who never has to count merchandise."

She grinned at him, glad that she had managed to brighten his mood.

"Tell you what—I'll swap your inventory for one of my CompStat re—"

The ringing of her cell phone cut off her words. Donald twisted in his chair to get the phone from the counter behind him.

"If they want you to come in early," he said, "tell them you're sick with scrapies_._"

Anita chuckled as she took her phone from his hand.

"You saying I've been a scapegoat so often I'm catching goat diseases?"

"Naw," Donald replied over the ringing. "Scrapies was the first thing I thought of."

She smiled at him as she checked the display.

_It's Monaghan… don't tell me things are screwed up already…._

"Van Buren," she answered the call.

_"It's Pat,"_ Monaghan replied_. "You checked today's FINEST messages yet?"_

Anita bit back a sharp retort.

_Why would I ruin a perfectly good breakfast by reading cop news to Donald?_

"No, I haven't."

_"Well, then—let me be the first to congratulate you, Captain Van Buren."_

Too many years had passed since Anita had first expected to hear that rank with her name, those years filled with appeals and lawsuits, anger and frustration. Now, the three words refused to make sense.

"What was that?" she asked Monaghan.

_"The promotion list is out. You made captain and you're getting Manhattan SVU."_

"But that's Don Cragen's—"

_"He made Deputy Inspector and he's taking over the One-Six from Renault, who's going to SID. Of course that's assuming he survives"_

"Who survives—Renault?

_"No, Cragen. Word is he was investigating one of the DA's bureau chiefs and the two of them shot it out last night. Cragen dropped the bureau chief, but he ended up at King's County. That's all I know."_

The flood of unexpected news seemed to swirl around her, forcing Anita to find an anchor point. She glanced around the room, finally settling on the puzzled frown of her husband.

_I got to tell him… but I got to make sure it's real first…._

"I've got to get online," she said to Donald.

_"Sure you do," _Monaghan responded_. "There's nothing like seeing news like this for yourself. I have to say—if anyone deserves a promotion, Anita—it's you. Congratulations, Captain."_

Monaghan ended the call, leaving Anita frozen in shock with her phone still held to her ear.

"Anita?" her husband called to her from across the table. "You okay?"

"I don't know yet."

She left the kitchen and hurried to the desk in the living room where the family computer sat. As soon as the web browser started, she logged into the NYPD's system and entered the FINEST message switching system.

_I want Admin News… today's messages… look for "Commands Concerned"… there it is—"Direct the following members of the service to report to the auditorium at Police Headquarters, One Police Plaza, at 0900 hours on August 18, 2007, for promotion…."_

Anita ran down names grouped by their new ranks, stopping when she reached the captains. There, she found her name and tax reg number next to "MAN SVU."

"Honey?"

At the sound of Donald's voice behind her, she pointed to her name on the computer screen.

"Look," she whispered, "I made captain."

He leaned over her shoulder to see the screen.

"Damn," he said. "You did. Why now?"

She shook her head.

_After my lawsuit failed,_ _Balzano told me I'd never get my captain's bars, that I'd rot where I was until I gave up and quit… so I really don't know why now…._

Donald took her hand and moved it to the right until her finger was pointing at her new assignment.

"That's Special Victims, right?" he asked. "A real step up, isn't it?"

She nodded.

"More people, more responsibility, more media exposure…."

_More chances to get it wrong in public… maybe that's what this is… but why set me up to fail? It's easier to leave me where I am… under-staffed, under-supplied, ignored and forgotten…._

Donald wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

"It's about time," he told her. "As hard as you've been working—all those long hours and all those cases your people solved—it's about time they gave you what you deserve."

Anita shook her head in reply as she punched the screen with her finger.

"What I deserve is an explanation, someone telling me why and how and whose mind got changed. I want to know if it's because I earned it, or if I'm getting thrown a bone because someone decided they needed more diversity."

Van Buren dipped each syllable in that last word in sarcasm and spit them out then she swallowed against the bitter taste left in her mouth. Her husband met her anger with the same love and acceptance he had given her when she decided to risk everything and plead Fontana's case to the first deputy commissioner.

"Honey," he asked, "you want to turn this down? It's okay if you do."

"Good Lord, no," she told him. "I took their shit as a lieutenant, and I'll take it as a captain, but what I want—what I really want is…."

Her throat tightened and her eyes filled with tears as the anger and frustration she had held in for too long overwhelmed her. Donald pulled her close to him.

"What you really want," he said, his words muffled by his hug, "is for the shit to go away, and the promotion and the honor that comes with it to be real."

Anita nodded, her cheek rubbing against his chest, her tears wetting his shirt. He held her, his comfort an anchor as she struggled to understand the unexpected.

"You're a strong woman, Anita," he told her. "You just ignore that shit, and be the captain I know you can be."

Donald let go with of her one arm to pull his handkerchief from his pants pocket.

"Here," he said. "Blow your nose and smile. However it happened, you're a captain now, and I'm so very proud of you."

Anita took the hanky and dabbed her eyes with it.

"Strong woman," she repeated with a snort of laughter. "I'm weeping all over you like a baby girl."

"I won't tell," he assured her, "and me and the boys will be there cheering for you when you get those bars. Just tell me when and where."

Anita turned back to the computer screen and scrolled up the list to the ceremony information.

_You know, I'm seeing an awful lot of names here… more than usual…._

"Police Headquarters," she told him, "in the auditorium on the first floor, Wednesday at eleven. You men need to be there by ten-forty-five."

She held out the hanky to return it, but Donald shook his head.

"I'll go get another one. You wait here."

As soon as he left, Anita scrolled back through the promotion list.

_Pat was right… Cragen's on the list… he's another who wasn't supposed to ever advance… he knows the One-Six—he'll shine as its commander… and there's Jeanetta—she's going to Eight-Three as a lieutenant… she's got the street smarts—it's a good fit … and Cornelius going to Training—that man's patience and knowledge is legendary… he was born to teach…._

Anita sat back in her chair and stared at the screen.

_These people will be where they'll do the most good… usually, you wait until you reach the top of the list then they put you in the first available slot… I wonder what's going on?_

Office of the Commissioner, NYPD  
On e Police Plaza  
16 August 8:20 a.m.

After too little sleep, Tim Richardson was back in his office to review his notes for his eight-thirty press conference.

_I'm opening with a summary of Beale's shooting—thoughts and prayers for Don Cragen's recovery, etc…. what I should do is thank Cragen for being the reason behind this reorganization… the day George, Tony, and I meted out the department's form of justice after Operation Chestnut, I told Cragen the culture here needed to change, but I doubted it would change soon enough to matter… it sounded mealy-mouthed when I said it… I'm the commissioner… if the department needs to change, it's my job to lead the way… saying it out loud that day convinced me to go ahead and act on my beliefs—make the changes I know we need…._

His phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. Richardson stacked his notes before answering.

_Morris Roth from PBBS… he said a fisherman had found a NYPD polo shirt neatly folded on the rocks by the Valentino Pier in Red Hook around 6:30 a.m. today… a pair of shoes and a leather belt were under the shirt… fisherman then called 911… the unit responding found a Lincoln with official tags parked outside the park… a car assigned to the First Deputy Commissioner… assigned to Tony…._

"I'm sending you a legal pad that my people found inside it," Roth had said. "You'd better read it. I also warn them if they breathed a word about this, I'll have both their badges and their onions."

_Before he hung up, Roth told me he had called in the Harbor Unit—he didn't have to say why… I better call Silvia… maybe it's all a mistake…._

Richardson dialed Balzano's home number from memory. When Silvia Balzano answered, he asked if Tony was available. Upon learning her husband had not been home when she had awakened earlier, he steeled himself for the task forced on him.

_I didn't tell her about Paul, but I did explain how Tony is on suspension pending a review… funny, but she didn't ask why… maybe she knew something wasn't right with Tony… then, I told her how we assumed he was heading home when he left here last night… and how the Harbor Patrol was searching the river downstream from where his shirt was found… for her, I had to spell it out—tell her the signs pointed to attempted suicide by drowning…God, I hope he didn't…._

"Do you have anyone who can be with you?" he asked Mrs. Balzano. "If not, I can call Joanna—"

_Silvia told me her mother was visiting… she said she would be fine… the way her voice was shaking, I knew she wasn't…._

After Richardson hung up, he called his wife, who promised to rush over to the Balzanos' home as soon as she dressed.

_Joanna and Silvia went to CNR together… they're closer than Tony and I are… I don't believe this… I can't believe this…._

A knock on his open door announced his aide's arrival.

"They're almost ready downstairs," she told him.

Richardson nodded to show he had heard as he gathered his notes.

_Not that I want Tony dead, but he could have picked a better time to take a one-way swim… it's almost as though he wanted to derail my plans…._

He said a silent prayer for Balzano's safety before leaving his office. On his way to the auditorium, he glanced again through his notes.

_I'll talk about culture change and how we need to preserve the traditions while positioning ourselves to counter modern-day threats and challenges… I'll address the importance of putting the right commander in the command most suited to his or her strengths, and not the one with the most seniority in the first available slot… I'll remind them that the devotion we have for our fellow officers is part of what makes us New York's Finest, but only when it's melded with our devotion to those we serve and to the principles that make us all free and equal citizens of this city and country… I'll tell them we need commanders and executives who know this in their bones if we're to continue protecting New Yorkers from threats foreign and domestic…._

His deep sigh attracted his aide's attention, but he ignored her questioning gaze.

_When I'm finished, the reporters will ask only about Cragen and Beale… they'll demand to know why we put a sexual predator in charge of the Sex Crimes Bureau… not one of them will ask if it's possible to make the force less insular and more open… if things really can change for the better… or what happens if this fails…._

The elevator chimed its arrival at the first floor. Richardson stepped back to let Michelle exit first.

_I'll get to face them all again later today… unless Tony decided to take a shirtless walk around his old neighborhood instead of drowning himself… I hope he did… I want him back again alive and safe…._

Anita Van Buren caught Richardson's announcement when she turned on the TV after Donald left for work.

_So he's going to change decades of tradition and prejudice… 'reform the culture to fit the needs of modern policing'… well, good luck on that… it's him against 49,000… much as I admire the man, those are long odds… but, hey—if it got me my bars, I can't bitch too much about it…._

Joe Fontana, fortified by a cup of espresso and clad in cotton sweatpants and an undershirt, watched the press conference from his bed. He immediately spotted the absence of the First Deputy Commissioner.

_Tony Balzano should be there, standing right next to Richardson to show his support for all these grand changes… maybe there is something to that story Judith told me last night… the one that shut down Dworkin's constant stream of nonsense for a good thirty seconds when I repeated it to him… twerp said he was going to call the commissioner right away… never heard back from him…._

Joe muted the sound from the TV.

_I spent a lot of time last night thinking… about how that pudgy little pervert from the Crooked Oak Lodge was not only a sexual predator, but the Sex Crimes Bureau Chief—man, the DA screwed the pooch on that one… Judith said she didn't know how many young men this Beale had drugged and sodomized, but she knew about Paul Balzano and another guy who killed himself… and how her captain had set himself up as bait to catch him and almost got himself killed in the process… Judith better never try a stunt like that—not without telling me first…._

But it was the rest of it, the part that pertained to Joe personally, that was roiling his thoughts.

_Judith said that Beale blackmailed Balzano into firing me... I can't believe it—Tony never knuckled under to anyone—not at scopa, not on the job, not at club meetings… that he'd do it now is crazy… I'd rather Tony hated my guts for no reason then to have someone hurt his kid and threaten him… now, I get to wonder if the thugs downstairs, and Golja, and Anacasis' hit man are all unintended consequences or if this Beale knew I'd get threats… if that rat bastard planned all this knowing I'd get whacked…._

Every mending bone and sutured incision ached at the thought.

_Damn shame Beale is dead… keeps me from killing him myself… and I should call Judith at her parent's place… tell her how Balzano's missing…._

He reached for his phone. Judith picked up after the fifth ring.

_"Wha?"_

The single groggy syllable warned Joe that he had awoken her.

"It's me," he told her. "Sorry about waking you, but Balzano isn't at the commissioner's press conference. I thought maybe that supports what you told me last night."

_"Last... night?"_

Joe stifled a laugh.

_My love is not a morning person…._

" Look, you go back to sleep. I'll call you around noon—okay?"

_"Oh…kay."_

Joe ended the call.

_She probably took a sleeping pill… it's damn hard to unwind after a day like she had yesterday…._

He turned back to the muted TV, which now showed the commissioner pointing at someone in the group of reporters gathered below his podium.

_Blackmail or not, Balzano still shouldn't of fired me—or threatened Judith… after I get my shield back, I've got some things to say to him about that… and then I'll accept his apology…._

Olivia missed the televised press conference because she was having breakfast with Dave Viks and his family.

_Swedish pancakes, orange juice, milk and coffee… Dave's dad was at the griddle pouring batter and flipping crepes like mad, but he still couldn't keep up with demand… Dave said they are his dad's Saturday morning specialty—I'm honored he made them for me… I really hated to cut my visit short, but the hospital called to tell me Don was awake and able to answer a few questions…._

On her way to Brooklyn, she received a call from Detective Bud Greenberg of Brooklyn South Homicide.

_The borough commander had BSH handle the forensics of the shooting… Cragen's house is in Brooklyn so it's their jurisdiction, and I was busy last night to argue… Greenberg told me that the Kel-Tec Beale shot Don with was used in an armed robbery almost two years ago… it should have been in the Bronx' evidence storage… per orders from his lieutenant, Greenberg said he's notifying IAB to investigate how it got from there to Beale… I told him Beale and the Bronx DA were close friends… Greenberg sounded less than thrilled about that complication…._

Wondering whether Martinez had arranged for Beale to get the Kel-Tec or if the bureau chief had obtained the handgun on his own occupied Olivia for the rest of her drive to Kings County Hospital.

_I'm very glad I'm not in charge of determining how corrupt the Bronx cops and their DA are… the Rat Squad is welcome to that job…._

Olivia stopped for a cup of coffee at the kiosk in the hospital lobby then she went to the floor where her captain was recuperating. As she passed the nurses' station, she heard her name called.

_Chief Conrad… in uniform... looking both tired and pissed…._

In response to her "Sir?", the Chief of Detectives beckoned her into a side corridor.

"Detective," he said once they were alone, "I need to know if you discussed the possibility that Bureau Chief Beale may have blackmailed the First Deputy Commissioner and, if so, with whom."

_Full titles and formality… this isn't idle curiosity..._

Olivia took a moment to recall the conversations she had had the day before.

"Arthur Branch," she told Conrad, "Jack McCoy, Alexandria Borgia, and my partner—that was in the DA's office yesterday afternoon. My partner and I also discussed the matter privately while waiting for news about Captain Cragen's surgery."

"Could anyone have overheard either of those conversations?"

"No, sir."

"Did you notify Joseph Fontana or his attorney Randolph Dworkin about this possibility?"

"No, sir. I did not."

Her emphatic replies seemed to satisfy the chief.

_But it did not make him happy… after he thanked me for my diligence on the Beale matter, he left in a hurry… when I'm done here, I should call Elliot—see if Conrad asked him the same questions… the Fontana question makes me think Judith got wind of the blackmail… Elliot was alone with her while they were tending to Don—no, he wouldn't have told her… not until we were cleared to talk about it…._

Had he known about it, Elliot Stabler would not have given a rat's ass about Richardson's press conference. After sleeping poorly and waking up too early, he had called Kathy to see if he could come by the house.

_Get some quiet time with her before our kids got up… just me and Kathy… I need to do something I've never done before… tell my wife everything that happened before I bottle it up inside me… before Dr. Jackson or the departmental shrink tell me I have to… this is where I find out if Kathy really can handle the shit I live with while it's still fresh.. while it's ripping me apart…._

Seated in his customary place at the kitchen table, with Kathy listening intently next to him, Elliot laid out the entire Beale saga, starting with him and Olivia in the Manhattan DA's office, and ending with being ordered back to the One-Six while paramedics were loading his captain into an ambulance."

"The Chief of Dees put me on administrative leave because I shot Faizullah Eshan," he told Kathy. "He thinks I need time to decompress. Usually, I fight like hell to stay on the job, but… this time…."

He dropped his gaze to his hands, both of them clasped inside of Kathy's on the table between them.

_The only blood that touches her hands comes from bandaging boo-boos… she's never fought to keep someone alive… buddies in Kuwait… victims here in the city… Cap last night… I keep forgetting how Kathy could fight like that if she had to… just because someone doesn't get to show their strength doesn't mean they're weak…._

"Before we went to Cap's house," he told Kathy, "I figured I spend the night dreaming about Eshan dying in front of me, but it didn't work that way. I kept seeing Cap, him lying on his kitchen floor covered in blood, him bound in chains the way Fontana saw that kid at the resort, then it was him left for dead in every way imaginable, just like the victims in all the cases I've worked, everyone of those bodies with Cap's face on them."

Kathy's hands tightened around his.

"You should go see him," she said. "Seeing Don alive, even if it is in a hospital room, should stop those dreams."

Elliot nodded.

_Yeah, it will… I know Liv is going this morning… thanks to me being on leave, she's stuck with the paperwork and she needs Cap's statement to finish up…._

"I'll do that," he replied. "If Olivia says he's up to it, maybe we can both go."

Kathy's quick smile promised so much—her willingness to accompany him, her understanding of his troubles, and her acceptance of him no matter what.

_I forgot how much I need that from her...  
_


	34. Monday, Monday: Part Two

Dan: Dan Womack (other original character) a friend of Fin's from Brewster's SVU shift

Police Combat Cross: Awarded for "the successful performance of an act of extraordinary heroism while engaged in personal combat with an armed adversary with imminent personal hazard to life in the intelligent performance of duty" (according to a now-lost NYPD web page), the second highest departmental award from the NYPD. Fin having this medal is canon.

Wesley Autrey: a Real Life construction worker who saved a young woman from being killed by a NYC subway train in January, 2007. His dealings with various attorneys and public relations representatives can politely be described as "nightmarish."

Ed, Terence, Steve, and Roland: other original characters in this series. Ed Wilson, Deputy Commissioner for Legal Matters, Terence Fulton, newly promoted Chief of Department, Steve Marczek, newly promoted Chief of Internal Affairs, and Roland Crutchfield, Deputy Commissioner for Public Information

"…cleaning up that extortion ring…": covered in my story "Scarlet Letters"

DCPI: Deputy Commissioner, Public Information. It's also shorthand for the Public Information department and everyone who works in it

LGBT: just in case someone doesn't know, it's the acronym for "Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgendered"

Tide and current info is correct for August 16, 2007. What a body might do in said currents is supposition on my part.

BNH: Brooklyn North Homicide

LUDs: Local Usage Details, a log of phone calls made and received for a given number available from the phone company

Sylvia: the wife of First Deputy Commissioner Tony Balzano (other original character)

Bed-Stuy: Bedford-Stuyvesant, a Brooklyn neighborhood that is "a cultural center for Brooklyn's black population" (Wikipedia)

BlackBerry® and The Weather Channel® are trademarked

deMichelis: (other original character from my story "Scarlet Letters) former Chief of Internal Affairs

MOS: member/members of service (i.e. police)

_Pro forma: _Latin "as a matter of form"; an action made or carried out in a perfunctory manner or as a formality

City Tech: New York City College of Technology, located in Brooklyn

Unflatten: a flat organization has few, if any, levels of management between staff and management. Since L&O:SVU has only a captain and detectives (no sergeants, no lieutenants), I explained this by positing an experimental 'flat' hierarchy set-up when the SV units were begun—the lead detectives doing the work of sergeants/lieutenants. To reimpose the standard NYPD hierarchy on the SV units would be to 'unflatten' them. (hey, I have to justified my MBA somehow)

As noted elsewhere, the police procedures and policies in this chapter do not reflect actual NYPD policies and procedures. Although I strive for verisimilitude, everything has been tailored to suit this story. Events also move faster than they would in Real Life. Some characters curse in this chapter.

Hospital Room of Odafin Tutuola  
Mercy Hospital, Manhattan, NY  
16 August 8:46 a.m.

Fin missed the commissioner's press conference because he was too busy staring at the sergeant sent to him by the DCPI. At first, it was because of her beauty was undiminished by her uniform and sergeant stripes, and her smile made him forget the pain of broken ribs and bruising.

_Like a black pearl in a navy blue oyster… perfect teeth, hair straightened and pulled back… no make-up and she don't need any… no rings, neither… wish I wasn't wearing a hospital gown… I'll have to ask her first name… her name tag says "Conner"…._

One minute later, Fin's gap-jaw stare was due to what Sgt. Conner was telling him.

"You're shitting me," he replied after he found his voice again. "Excuse my language, but you're shitting me."

_Aren't you?_

"No, Detective," she said, "I'm not. We've had calls from _The Today Show_, _Good Morning America_, _The Early Show_, _Inside Edition_, _American Morning_, and also _Fox and Friends_. Every local station in the tri-state area, TV and radio, wants you, and so do most of the nationally syndicated radio shows. We've also heard from the bookers for Leno, Letterman, Charlie Rose, Montel, and Ellen_, _also _60 Minutes, Larry King Live, O'Reilly Factor_, not to mention reporters for almost every news magazine and newspaper, foreign and domestic. Do you have your cell on you?"

Fin shook his head.

_I'd left it on my desk… forgot to mention it to Elliot and Chester until Inglee asked about it… when Dan called to check on me last night, he said he'd keep it safe for me until today's shift meeting…._

"If you had it," Conner continued, "you'd know how many people are trying to contact you."

Fin's jaw dropped again.

_She's funning me about that… this has to be a joke… except no one's in a joking mood—not with Cap'n shot up, and our bureau chief dead and him turning out to be a pervert and a predator… not with that kid's blood and brains staining the wall outside our squadroom… no, no one's pulling any pranks today… but I still want no part of this…._

"No interviews, no TV appearances," he told the DCPI sergeant. "I didn't do anything anyone else wouldn't have done."

_Maybe I held out longer than Judith or Munch would of… but, so long as Elliot got to there in time, same outcome for them, too… I'd rather one of them was facing this and not me… I did interviews after I got the Combat Cross… wasn't a reporter asking questions that knew shit about what it meant or what I'd done to earn it…._

"And," he continued, "it's not like it was Al-Qaeda trying to bomb us. It was just some Afghani pissed because we kept his cousin from getting gang-raped."

Conner shook her head as though pitying him.

"The public doesn't think about the issues," she said. "They see 'bomb' and 'did not explode' and, to them, that makes you a hero."

Fin scowled at her.

"I'm no hero, and I'm not giving any interviews."

Conner stared directly into his scowl.

"Not even if the brass orders you to?"

Fin did a quick mental calculation.

_I don't have enough years in to retire… don't have the cash, neither… shit—looks like I'm hooked…._

He squared his shoulders against the raised bed and pillow behind him.

"How many shows I have to do?" he asked. "I mean, what's the least I can get away with?"

Sgt. Conner's smile showed some sympathy for his plight.

"You'll do the network morning shows," Conner replied. "We'll get you on the local talk shows, and set up some print interviews—give Manhattanites a chance to laud and praise you. That ought to make everyone happy. After all, you're right about one thing. Without a terrorist angle, this probably will die down in a week or two."

Fin nodded in agreement.

_Could be worse… I've seen those interviews… guests never get much chance to talk… people on the morning shows too interested in hearing their own voices to listen… if I talk about what happened, maybe no one will ask about me…._

"Now, about the rest of it," Conner continued. "Since you're on the job, you can't accept any gratuities, prizes, or gifts—that includes season tickets, vacation trips, and automobiles. You can designate a charity or organization to which they can be donated in your name. I'm supposed to steer you toward the Police Foundation, but it's your decision where you want it to go."

Conner glanced at her notepad. Before Fin could say anything about wanting no rewards, she said, "The mayor, the governor, and other elected representatives will want to honor you—awards and certificates can be accepted if there's nothing of value involved. You should also remember that relatives you haven't heard from in years and friends you've forgotten about may get in contact with you. Some of them may ask you to share your fame with them or to pay their bills. Lawyers, agents, and PR reps will want you to sign contracts for book and movie rights, and to handle your personal appearances."

This time, Fin clenched his jaw to keep it from dropping.

"Movie rights? You mean a movie about me wresting that hump?"

Conner nodded.

"Maybe not a movie, but definitely books written and published ASAP to capitalize on your fame. I wouldn't be surprised if researchers aren't already asking your family when you started to walk and if you had trouble with potty training."

_Telling everyone about me growing up? About my parents?_

"Remember Wesley Autrey, the Subway Hero?" Conner continued. "All this happened to him, and now he's in the middle of several lawsuits because of bad choices he made trying to cope with his fame. That's why I'm here—to help you handle things and keep your moment in the sun from ruining your life."

The urge to flee sent Fin's gaze to the door, where the officer guarding his room was standing.

_He's keeping me in as much as he's keeping people out… but I can't let my life story get out where everyone can see it… I can't let that happen…._

"I don't want anyone writing about me," he demanded. "Can't I stop them?"

The sergeant leaned forward in her chair as though she wondered about his sanity.

"The only way to prevent unauthorized biographies," she told him, "is for them to become unsellable before they're written. If a bigger news story comes along—a disaster or, God forbid, a real terrorist attack, then the public will shift its attention to it and forget about you."

Fin sank back against the pillow.

_Damn… there's no chance that will happen… I'm screwed…._

Office of the Commissioner, NYPD  
One Police Plaza  
16 August 9:17 a.m.

The moment Tim Richardson was out of sight of the reporters attending his press conference, his aide handed him a printed update from the Harbor Unit, and a sealed manila envelope from Morrie Roth.

"Thanks, Michelle," he said as he took both items from her. "Now, I want Ed, Terence, Steve, and Roland in my office in half an hour. Put some units outside Tony's townhouse, and get DCPI to send someone over there to handle any reporters. We'll be releasing something to the media about this…"

He held up the envelope from Roth.

"… later this morning."

Richardson spent the elevator ride to his office mentally dissecting the press conference.

_One surprise—yesterday's bomb attempt is still the big news… it ranked ahead of Beale's death in number of questions asked… which means I need to keep it on my radar… show the department is taking action to protect the precinct houses and the public… I also got the questions I expected about the reorg: what will it do to promised diversity goals? Is it an end-run around promises made to the LGBT/Hispanic/African-American/Asian/other hyphenated communities? Won't promoting officers based on ability guarantee an all-white police presence on our streets? _

Richardson stifled a sigh.

_Just once, I'd like to hear a procedural question… something that shows knowledge of police matters… acknowledges the advances we've made instead of assuming everything we do is evil and stupid…._

After arriving at this office, he closed the door behind him.

_Michelle will keep everyone at bay until I'm finished… that gives me twenty minutes or so…._

The Harbor Unit update was a quick although technical read.

_Slack water was at 6:35 this morning…maximum ebb current was 2.7 at 3:24 a.m.…. that means, if Tony went in the water around three, he would have been swept south into Gowanus Bay unless he was a strong-enough swimmer to round the Flats… in that case, the current and tide could take him through the Narrows and out to sea... if he went in around daybreak, he may end up close to Red Hook… hung up on the dilapidated piers downstream or floating in the anchorage offshore… there's a note that BNH is checking Tony's LUDs and credit card usage in case he planned to fake a suicide and disappear … God, I hope that's the case, but, judging from this report, no one believes it… we're looking at recovery of a drowned body, not a rescue or a fugitive chase…._

Richardson swallowed hard against the nausea roiling his stomach before opening the sealed envelope. Its contents were a signed affidavit detailing where and when the evidence was found, and a dozen pages of white legal-sized paper, one side of each filled with handwriting in blue ink, each sheet protected by a clear plastic evidence sleeve. The last sheet was signed "Anthony J. Balzano" with that day's date and "3:50 a.m." written under the signature.

_I have the originals… if I want, I can destroy them and no one will know the why of Tony's disappearance… assuming Roth keeps his people quiet…._

He kept that option in mind as he read the first sheet, taking up each sheet in turn until he had finished the entire document.

_My God—talk about a perfect storm… no wonder Tony caved instead of fighting…._

His cell phone rang. Richardson silently cursed the interruption as he answered the call.

_George Conrad, letting me know neither Stabler or Benson admit to telling Dworkin about Beale's blackmail, and he thinks they're both telling the truth… that means the leak must be on Arthur's end…._

He thanked Conrad then asked him to pass the news onto the DA.

_Yes, it will look like we're accusing his people, but that's too damn bad…. _

Richardson ended the call then he picked up the hand-written sheets to read through a second time, pausing first to stifle a yawn.

_Too much happening and not enough sleep… I need to keep my mind in the game… find the course of action that best minimizes the damage to the department… and, as much as possible, salvages Tony's reputation and protects his family… it's a tall order… and I'm fresh out of ideas…. _

Half an hour later, Richardson was in his office suite's conference room with the men summoned by his aide. The chiefs, Terrence Fulton and Stephen Marczek, were in uniform, the deputy commissioners, Edward Wilson and Roland Crutchfield, in business suits. All of them ignored the cups of coffee and bottles of water set before them as they read their copies of Balzano's last message.

_I hate to admit it, but that's exactly what it is… even Sylvia thinks so… she's waiting for us to make an official announcement before she begins notifying her family… so that's the first item on the agenda…._

One by one, the four men seated with Richardson at the conference table reached the end of their reading.

_Terence finished first… Tony told me making him Chief of Department was a big mistake, but Terence is more than qualified, and there's nothing that says I had to name an Irishman to replace Sullivan… although my joke about Terence being black Irish fell on Tony's deaf ears…._

Fulton caught Richarson's gaze and slowly shook his head.

_I agree… it looks bad, very bad…._

Crutchfield was the next to finish. The DPCI flipped his stack of papers over then immediately began to make notes on his BlackBerry.

_Nothing fazes Roland… he has media releases written and ready to go for every eventuality… maybe even this one…._

Marczek, the youngest man in the room, sank back in his chair and stared at the photocopied pages as though he expected them to grow fangs and bite him.

_Steve's here because IAB will be involved with whatever we decide to do with Fontana… Tony also disagreed with me about naming him to replace deMichelis—too young for the responsibility, he said… but Steve's actions in cleaning up that extortion ring and setting policies in place to prevent future attempts at blackmailing MOS showed he's ready to take charge…._

Ed Wilson, the Deputy Commissioner for Legal Matters, spent the longest on Balzano's pages.

_Ed's on the hot seat thank to Beale—Arthur and him share oversight of the Sex Crimes Bureau... his office has to handle the fallout from that plus cope with any legal issues with Beale's victims or Newman's family… Ed also has to be ready for whatever Dworkin and Fontana will throw at us…._

As soon as Wilson signaled that he had completed his reading, Richardson asked for comments.

_Give everyone a few minutes to express their shock and dismay… hell, I'd like to damn Tony myself for taking the easy way out…._

When the exclamations had petered out, Richardson pointed at Crutchfield.

"First thing, we need to release a statement to the media. Roland?"

Crutchfield shrugged as though such statements were child's play for him.

"Harbor Unit searching, family been notified, our thoughts and prayers," he recited. "You need more?"

"That will do for now," the commissioner told him. "We can go into more detail when Tony is found."

Four faces drained of hope regarded him.

_They've seen the latest from Harbor… they know there's no chance of finding Tony alive…._

"Now," he said to signal a change of subject. ""I want to protect all of Beale's victims as much as possible. We'll contact them privately and handle each on a case-by-case basis. Everyone of them remains anonymous, and that includes Paul Balzano."

"What about Newman?" Terence asked.

"He's the exception. I'm sorry for the pain it will cause his family, but focusing on Beale's attack on him will divert media attention away from the living victims. If it's any comfort, Newman's family will have the truth about their son's suicide."

No one applauded the commissioner's decision.

_Not that I expected praise… we're making the best of a horrible situation here… there's no glory in it…._

"Ed," Richardson continued, "Branch is taking point on the victim notifications. I want you to provide whatever support you can for that effort.

As soon as Wilson nodded his confirmation of the order, Richardson said, "Judging from your faces as you read through these pages, you are as shocked as I was."

"I had no idea Tony was going through any of this," Wilson noted. "If he'd only said something—came to one of us for help."

"But he didn't," Richardson replied, "which means we now have to cope with the mess he left us. First up is the matter of Tony himself—taking care of his duties and office, handling the media, and, when it comes to it, making arrangements to honor him. We've all been through this before so we all know what to do."

Heads nodded in agreement. The death of a fellow member of the force, be it that of a patrol officer or of the First Dep, was a formal matter, its routines and ceremonies well-scripted and familiar to all.

_However, 'familiar' is not the same as 'easy'… just thinking about the bagpipes playing "Going Home" for Tony chokes me up…._

Richardson grabbed his water bottle and used a swallow from it to hide his grief.

_Now isn't the time… later, we'll do things right…._

He then tapped the original of Balzano's message that lay before him.

"Next comes the matters Tony addressed in these pages. We need to find a path through this mess, one that addresses the damages done and also avoids further damage to the department and its people—"

All four men winced at his words.

_Yes, it's a tall order, but we need this done yesterday…._

"—so let's get to it."

Hospital Room of Donald Cragen  
Kings County Hospital, Brooklyn, NY  
16 August 10:51 a.m.

_The next person who comes through that door and asks how I'm feeling… I'm going demand their service weapon and let them experience it for themselves…._

Don Cragen closed his eyes and listened to the whirs and beeps of the machines that monitored his vital signs and controlled his IV drips.

_Right now, I don't feel too bad—I just ache all over… it's nothing compared to last night… whatever pain-killer they have me on, it's working…._

The faint sounds of wood rubbing against wood told him his sister, who was seated in the corner out of the way of visitors and nurses, had resumed her knitting.

_Big sister Lynnie watching over me… she said Mom would be here later… she also said Tullia was here while I was in surgery… I guess both of them are catching up on sleep… every time I drift off, someone wakes me up… nurses making sure the machines are working… other nurses checking to see if the machines are wrong and I'm really dead… then Detective Green-something from Brooklyn South Homicide wanting a statement… followed by the Chief of Dees…._

Chief Conrad had brought the news of Don's promotion with him.

_Precinct commander of the One-Six… I only have to move my things down two floors… Renault's office makes mine look like a shoe box… he said Couch got his sergeant stripes and will stay at SVU… I'm getting—no, my replacement is getting another sergeant, too… no more lead detectives running a shift… that experiment is over…._

Conrad also told Don about his injured detectives, and the attempted bombing.

_My God—both John and Fin? Eshan coming back at us for saving his niece? Holy shit…._

"Has anyone contacted the girl's family?" Don asked. "Are they okay?"

"We have," Conrad assured him, "and they're fine. We did alert the authorities in the city where they're hiding just in case."

Don relaxed against the pillows supporting him as he listened to the rest of the chief's news.

_Beale's dead… I expected that one… he damn near took me with him… fourteen victims… all of their attacks recorded on DVDs… proves I was right about him being a predator… and that he really was coming after me… I'm still trying to get my head around that one… it doesn't feel real yet… maybe it's the drugs…._

Not longer after the chief had left, Detective Benson had come by.

_Olivia looked exhausted… she was nice enough to say I looked great… someone must have redefined 'great' to mean 'lots of bullet and needle holes'… she told me Fin was being released later this morning, but DCPI had him for the next day or two… John would probably be kept for another night—according to Donna, he still sounds loopier than normal… Olivia also said Elliot was on leave pending his shooting review, which should be _pro forma _—if it's not, I'm having Lynnie wheel me to One P.P. so I can raise hell… that's when I asked if Liv was here for an official visit…._

"Yes," Benson had replied as she pulled a chair close to his bedside. "You up to giving a statement?"

Don nodded. His sister caught Don's gaze then she rose to her feet.

"Sounds like a hint to me," she announced. "Please try not to tire him out."

Olivia smiled in reply. When the woman has left the room, Benson's smile vanished.

"I am so sorry," she told her captain. "We tried to get to your place in time, but Beale was always one step ahead of us."

Don cringed at the thought.

_One step ahead of you and me, both… I never thought about Beale's being armed… I'm damned lucky—that's the sort of mistake that leaves cops dead…._

"Almost too late is better than too late," he assured his detective. "Chief Conrad said you and Elliot were working the other side of my ethical wall."

Olivia gave him a quick smile for his quip then she pulled a small recorder from her jacket pocket and did a voice check before setting it on the table by her captain's bedside. His statement, although broken by pauses for him to gather his thoughts and to rest, was succinct and to-the-point.

_I detailed everything—my initial suspicions about Beale, the conversations with the DA, the precautions I took—the webcams and arranging for John to check in on me…._

Olivia paused the recorder and leaned closer to him, her eyes wide with surprise.

"You told Munch?"

All the IV tubes attached to his arms kept Cragen from shrugging at her question.

"Why not?" he replied, his face as dead-pan as he could manage. "John is our go-to guy for paranoia and suspicion."

Don waited for Olivia to stop snickering before he continued his statement by describing his fears about the coffee being drugged, and Beale's reaction to his attempt to save the liquid for testing.

"The last part is fuzzy," Don told her. "I know Beale went down, and I think I tried to get help."

Olivia's gaze left his face and she winced as though picturing the scene in her head.

"Beale was dead when we got there. You were under the kitchen table, and you both had emptied your weapons. Do you really want the details?"

Don shut his eyes and shook his head.

_No, I don't want to picture it… or see it… feels good to have my eyes closed…._

He didn't hear Benson ask if he had anything else to add to his statement nor did he notice her departure. When he woke again, a different woman was sitting by his bed. Don blinked a few times to clear his vision.

_Shorter… older… no badge…._

"Liz?"

Dr. Olivet smiled in response.

"I had you scheduled for eleven today," she said. "You missed your appointment."

"Sorry about that. Something came up and I'll have to reschedule."

His attempt at an off-handed shrug failed so Don settled for a sheepish grin. Liz chuckled then said, "I see they didn't remove your sense of humor. How do you feel?"

_Damn… now I have to shoot her…._

"I hurt and I'm tired," he told her. "I'm also damn glad to be alive."

She patted him on his shoulder, leaving her hand rest there for a moment while she agreed with him.

"I hope you're not too angry I tried to help out," she then said, "although I gather my efforts didn't do as much as I'd hoped. I stopped to see Detective Munch on my way here."

"I hear he's acting loopy."

"A bit more than usual, but a severe concussion does account for that. John seems fixated on red hair right now. I think it's to cover his embarrassment at being unable to remember what happened to him."

"Red hair?" Don repeated. "I guess that beats assuming the Mafia snatched him to implant false memories of the JFK assassination."

Olivet chuckled again.

"True, but I'm not here to talk about John. I wanted to make sure you were okay. Now that I've done so, I should let you rest."

Don mustered the strength to nod.

_Wish I could tell you everything now… but I keep drifting off… plus, I want some time to think it through by myself… it's like everything keeps washing over me, but none of it sticks…._

"Save me an hour or three," he told her. "I have a feeling I'm going to need to talk this one out."

"That's what I'm there for," Liz assured him. "You take it easy."

Don closed his eyes.

_That's an easy command to follow…._

Apartment of Alphonse and Hanan Sofarelli  
Queens, N.Y.  
16 August 11:28 a.m.

After a late breakfast, Couch Sofarelli spent his morning calling family members to tell them the news of his promotion.

_I know I sound like a kid on Christmas morning, but I passed the sergeant's exam… and I got an assignment—sure, it's mostly because the brass is unflattening our unit… but, hey—I made sergeant on my first try…. _

The mirrored wall on the far side of the apartment's dining room showed Couch in his living room, the reflection filled with a mishmash of chairs, tables, and floor cushions chosen for comfort, not style. Couch sprawled on several cushions, his feet propped on the coffee table and a huge grin on his face, as he wrapped up a call to his father at his job site in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia. Above him in the reflection, the television, its sound muted, displayed the east coast's weather forecast from the Weather Channel.

_Damn right my reflection's grinning... I figured I'd pass the exam by the skin of my teeth then get on the list and wait for a slot… no way did I expect an assignment today, let alone to SVU… I probably owe Fin dinner or something—Captain Cragen did tell him there was no way this could happen… I don't want him getting sore again… and I should call him… he said he needed a ride home when the hospital released him, but I haven't heard a word from him…._

Couch punched the numbers for Fin's hospital room.

_No answer… that's odd… he said he thought he'd be released around eleven…if he's left already, I can't call him—his cell is still at the squadroom… guess he got his ride covered…._

His phone rang in his hand just as he ended the call, its screen displaying Otten's name and number.

_"Are you watching the news?" _she asked without greeting or warning.

"No," Couch replied. "I'm calling family about me making ser—"

_"Turn it on—now."_

With his free hand, Couch took up the remote and turned to the local news channel. The video behind the female anchor at the news desk was of a Harbor Unit boat, its blue and white paint and the "NYC POLICE" lettering serving to identify it.

_Looks like New Jersey in the distance… the news crawl under it says something about blacklisting the Iranian Guards…._

He thumbed the Mute button and the sound came on.

"… -lice say his car was found around eight this morning. For those of you who are just joining us, we have just received word that the New York City Police Harbor Unit is combing the waters of the Upper Bay for First Deputy Commissioner Anthony F. Balzano, NYPD's second-in-command. All the department is saying at this time is that they suspect Deputy Commissioner Balzano went into the water around dawn this morning—"

_Holy shit… the First Dep… suicide? _


	35. Monday, Monday: Part Three

Anders and Monaghan: detective and lieutenant from the shift opposite Van Buren's in Manhattan Homicide

FED: Fugitive Enforcement Division, made up of the Fugitive Warrant Squad, the Cold Case Squad, and the Juvenile Crime Squads

Ed Green's bicycle: interiors of his residence show a bicycle hung on the wall

_gornisht_: Yiddish for 'nothing' (_Bupkes_ is for something that is worth nothing)

_tête-à-tête_: French, a private conversation between two people

"Took the Greenway down to the Esplanade…": urban bike/walk paths along the Hudson River in Manhattan

DCLM: Deputy Commissioner for Legal Matters; in this story, it's Edward Wilson

The couplet quoted by Fontana is from Rupert Brooks' _1914 I: Peace_

_Post hoc, propter hoc_: the _post hoc _fallacy, which is the fallacious notion that, because one event happened before another event, the first event caused the second one.

"Chin music from Roger Clemens": euphemism for a baseball pitch that hits a batter in the head. Roger Clemens, a Yankee pitcher, threw a ball that hit Mike Piazza of the Mets during Game 2 of the 2000 World Series.

The Little League Mid-Atlantic Regional Tournament was played in Bristol, Connecticut in 2007. I'm using the team from Endwell, NY as the model for Casey's little brother's team.

SVU Canon does not list family names or ages for Casey Novak.

Kel-Tec: small 9mm handgun (mentioned earlier as the weapon Beale was carrying)

I created some back story in this chapter to explain some L&O canon.

As noted elsewhere, the police procedures and policies in this chapter do not reflect actual NYPD policies and procedures. Although I strive for verisimilitude, everything has been tailored to suit this story. Events also move faster than they would in Real Life. Some characters curse in this chapter.

Residence of Joseph Fontana

17 Battery Place

16 August 11:55 a.m.

_It was supposed to be the perfect day… nothing to do until evening shift, Cassady away at the Homicide Investigators course—sure hope she learns something… if she comes back as mouthy and ignorant as she left, I'm asking the Lieu to swap her out—hell, I'd even trade her for Bradley… at least he knows his shit… but, five minutes after eight, I get a call from Anders on Monaghan's shift…he wakes me up to tell me Van Buren made captain and that Commissioner Richardson is reorganizing the entire department… Anders said we're getting somebody named Isadore Cortale from FED—he said Monaghan's heard good things about him… yeah, okay—I'm happy for Van Buren making captain, but did I have to learn about it at eight-oh-five a.m.?_

Ed Green had just fallen back to sleep when his phone rang again.

_My mom… I forgot to call home over the weekend… I didn't tell her I was in Atlantic City… I wasn't gambling—just with friends… after Mom hung up, I gave up on sleeping and went for a run then showered… heard about Balzano on the radio while shaving… they can call it 'disappearance' all they want, but it sounds like suicide… damn… never would of thought it of him… there's got to be more to the story…._

Hearing the news brought his partner to mind. Ed gave Joe a call to discuss things with him.

_I figured he'd be all 'Good riddance' about Balzano, but he only said was 'Yeah, I heard' then he quickly invited me to lunch…haven't heard anyone change the subject that fast outside of a phone tap… guess I'll find out what's up when I get there… this morning's run reminded me that I'm spending too much time sitting and not enough moving so I rode my bike…._

An hour and ten minutes later, Ed was wheeling his bike around the armchair blocking the entry of Joe's co-op. The Praesidium operative who had let him in then holstered his weapon and went into the spare bedroom, closing the door behind him. Ed wondered why the man had left as he leaned his bike against the coat closet.

_Last time I was here, that dude was glued to the door… more stuff in here…art, photos, furniture—Judith must have moved her things in… there's Joe across the living room… he's got Dworkin with him…._

Both men were staring at Ed, Joe from a sofa Ed recognized as new, the attorney from an armchair pulled close for conversation. Neither looked happy to see the detective.

"Hey," Ed greeted them. "How you two doing?"

"Never better," growled Joe. "Why don't you go talk to Judith; she's upstairs. There's pop and water in the bar."

"All right."

_I can take a hint… privileged communication with a lawyer loses its privilege if someone else participates or overhears it… that must be why the Praesidium dude left… and why I'm being asked to go upstairs…._

Ed took the steps two at a time to the second floor of the duplex. The original design for the co-op had the room configured as a bed-sitting room with its own bath. Joe had converted it to an office and furnished it with a carved walnut desk with executive chair in black leather, a wet bar with refrigerator, a walnut glass-front cabinet that held cigars, and a gun safe paneled in walnut. On the terrace overlooking the water were two wide lounges with matching side tables, their cushions and glass tops still wrapped in plastic.

_Yet more furniture… nice stuff—Joe's really setting Judith up fine… and she's sitting behind Joe's desk and staring out the window… gray light wool pants suit and blue blouse… dressed for the street and looking beat to hell…._

Judith turned toward Ed when he entered the room, and the look she gave him was only slightly more welcoming than those he had received from the men downstairs. He leaned against the desk and asked after Tutuola and Munch then he asked after her captain.

_I got that news from a friend with Brooklyn North Homicide last night… he knew Cragen had commanded our unit and figured some of us might want to know…._

After Judith told him Captain Cragen made it through surgery and should be fine, Ed then asked why Dworkin was downstairs.

Two minutes later, Ed understood why everyone was so grumpy.

_Bureau Chief Beale and First Dep Balzano… the first one a predator and blackmailer… the second his victim… Beale using Balzano to trap Cragen… and to take out Joe…. _

By the time Judith finished her tale, Ed's fists were clenched in anger at the man who had set his partner up.

"Y'know," he told Judith, "I've been with Joe almost three years, and I couldn't tell you who he'd slept with or where he done it. Joe's a gentleman like that. This guy Beale didn't have to worry about him blabbing."

Judith's weary sigh agreed with Ed.

"But predators are control freaks," she replied. "They can't let anything ruin their plans. I'm sure the second he recognized Joe, Beale started searching for a way to take him out."

"But blackmailing Balzano into firing him and then leaving him hanging where any hump could take a shot at him—that's crazy."

Ed paused to consider exactly how crazy it was.

_Judith didn't say what Beale had on Balzano, but it had to be big…._

He unclenched his right hand and wriggled his fingers to loosen them up.

_Something really big… like finding out he was one of Beale's victims… like Beale did to him what he was planning for Cragen… if so, I don't want to know about it…._

Ed then pointed at Judith.

"You think Balzano's dead?"

She nodded, but her eyes went dead and she swallowed hard as she did it.

_Yeah, you like the idea about as much as I do… how in hell can Joe prove anything if both Beale and Balzano are dead?_

Downstairs, Randy Dworkin was bringing his client up to date.

"Ed Wilson's aide called my office about an hour ago," he told Fontana. "He said Wilson wanted to set up a meeting with us and Richardson later this afternoon. I told him that, thanks to injuries sustained by you during one of the many attempts on your life, attempts aided and abetted by the inactions of the New York City police when they failed to protect you, it was too dangerous for you to leave your well-guarded abode. If they take care of the goons watching this building and your fiancée's house then we'll see about a meeting."

His client snorted as though in disbelief at Dworkin's use of a blunt demand as a negotiating tactic.

_Hey, it's what we lawyers do…._

"What did Wilson say to that?" Fontana asked.

"He said, and I quote, 'I'll see about it.' Unless I miss my guess, and I seldom do, those high-priced bodyguards of yours won't have much to do after today. That means we can meet with Richardson sometime tomorrow. When would be convenient for you?"

Fontana considered the question.

"I've got a doctor appointment at 8:30 in the morning," he replied. "Praesidium came up with a plan to get me out of here safely—I don't know all the details, but I do know it's gonna cost me a small fortune."

"You really should reconsider that civil suit," Dworkin told him. "Put all the expenses back on those who caused them in the first place."

Fontana drew himself upright as though offended at the notion.

"No lawsuit. Tony's family is going through enough hell as it is."

Dworkin raised an eyebrow.

_Tony? I thought Balzano's first name was 'Goddamned' and his middle initial was 'Fucking'… maybe Fontana's doctors implanted some empathy during his surgery… and I don't think that joke will get any laughs right now…._

"Your choice," Dworkin told his client, "even if I disagree with it. Now, how long do you think it will take for the police to arrange the arrest of Crespo's thugs downstairs?"

Fontana blinked as though startled by the question then he tipped his head and frowned.

"Maybe today, maybe tomorrow—depends on the manpower available and what other operations are already in the hopper, and how hard the brass breathes down their necks."

"And, if we assume Richardson has the breath of a white-hot hurricane and is threatening to blow their shorts off…?"

Dworkin expected a reaction to his overblown phrasing…

_A smile… a glint of hope in his eyes… some small expression of cheer…_

… but Fontana only shrugged.

"Then it happens yesterday and we meet tomorrow. I ask for my shield; they give it to me, and then I attend Tony's funeral. I give my condolences to Sylvia and Paulie, and I try not to think about how all this happened because some sicko I saw for maybe five minutes two years ago decided I was a threat."

The detective sagged against the back cushion as though drained of strength. Dworkin asked if he were up for discussing negotiating strategies for the meeting with Richardson.

Fontana shook his head.

"Not right now. Maybe, after lunch…."

Dworkin took a good look at his client.

_He looks awful—bags under his eyes, no starch in his bones… I was kidding about the conscience transplant, but maybe he really is upset over what happened to Balzano…._

The attorney rose to his feet.

"I'll give you a call as soon as I hear from Wilson."

"Fine."

Dworkin took a step toward his client. Fontana's brows furrowed as he met the younger man's gaze.

_Don't worry… I'm not going to bite…._

"I'm sorry about your friend," he told Fontana. "May his memory be a blessing to you."

The detective blinked then he turned away as though embarrassed by the kind words.

"Thank you," he said, his voice almost too soft to be heard.

_Well, if Fontana can feel for the man who fired him, who am I to be hard-hearted?_

Dworkin turned to leave. Fontana called after him.

"You know—I'm not paying you to be friendly."

Dworkin allowed himself a grin.

_Now, that's the Fontana I know and love…._

"This one's free," Dworkin told him over his shoulder. "I'll even subtract sixty seconds' worth of my time from your bill to cover it. Don't get up. I'll find my way out."

Upstairs, Green and Otten had helped themselves to the soft drinks in the bar's refrigerator then taken their conversation onto the terrace. The two of them leaned against the outer wall, ignoring the new chairs and their protective covers. Beyond the wall, Ed could see Castle Clinton and the city pier, and, in the distance, Ellis and Liberty Islands, but neither detective was paying attention to the view.

Ed held his bottled water in both hands, a precaution against dropping it onto the deck below. Next to him, Judith's can of ginger ale was dripping condensation onto a black tile arrow set into the scored concrete under her feet.

_Looks like it's pointing west …._

"You know what that arrow is for?" he asked.

Judith glanced down before chuckling.

"It's supposed to indicate the direction of police headquarters in Chicago," she replied. "Nick put it there so Joe would know where to face while cursing at the people who made him leave."

"I figured there was bad blood causing him to go," Ed replied. "You know what it was?"

Ed saw Judith's gaze shift to the Jersey side of the river as she considered her answer.

"It's not my story to tell," she finally said. "Let's just say it was a disagreement between the brass and Joe over a matter of ethics."

Ed swallowed a laugh at her choice of words.

'_A matter of ethics'… in other words, Joe didn't follow the rules and got caught—getting caught being the greatest sin a cop can commit…._

"It was suggested," Judith continued, "that it would be better for Joe if he retired with his pension intact so he did."

_And that's just like Joe—he knows the value of a strategic retreat…._

"Nice to know the move here didn't change Joe's personality," he said.

Judith's laugh almost drowned out Dworkin's voice calling from the stairs behind them.

"You can come down now. Detective Fontana and I have finished our _tête-à-tête_."

By the time the two detectives made it downstairs, the attorney had left. The Praesidium operative who had let Ed in had resumed his position by the door while the other operative was taking containers from the refrigerator. Judith joined him in the kitchen. Ed took a seat in the chair vacated by Dworkin.

"You actually rode that bike all the way here from your place?" Joe said in greeting.

"I did," Ed replied. "Took the Greenway down to the Esplanade then here. Hardest part of the ride was convincing your doorman to let me bring my bike in. He said I had to carry it across his precious tile floor."

Joe snorted at Ed's comment as he grabbed for the pull bar on the pole by the sofa.

"Yeah, that's Jackson," he said as he pulled himself upright on the sofa. "You think he hates bikes? You should try dragging a wheeled carry-on through his lobby. Judith's heating leftovers from yesterday, but it's lamb curry so I asked her to make you something with cheese. That all right with you?"

Ed nodded.

"So, what's the word from your lawyer," he asked.

Joe filled him in on the call from Wilson and Dworkin's demand that the thugs downstairs be arrested.

"I'm thinking," Joe said, "that they'll pick up Crespo's thugs this afternoon then Wilson will schedule that meeting for tomorrow. They'll give my shield back without a hassle so they can pull the rug over this and forget it. "

Joe's expression as he conveyed that news was less than joyous.

"You good with that?" Ed asked.

"Yeah."

Ed checked his partner for signs he was telling the truth.

_He's playing with that seam on the sofa arm next to him… it's going to unravel if he keeps picking at it… and he's giving me that sideways look—the one that, if he was a skel, would mean I'm about to be lied to—except Joe doesn't lie to me… he just changes the subject…._

"You're thinking it ain't worth it?" he noted. "Not if you're getting it because Balzano is dead?"

"Damn right it's not worth it," Joe growled. "I want to hear an apology from Tony, not listen to his eulogy—that, and get a reason for him firing me."

"Well, you got a reason. Balzano canned you because he was being blackmailed—least, that's what Judith said."

The glare Joe aimed at him made Ed wonder what he had said to anger the older man.

"She tell you what Beale had on Balzano?" Joe asked.

Ed shook his head.

"Good," Joe told him. "It's better you don't know. I wish I didn't."

Fontana then reached up again for the pull bar. This time, he pulled himself to his feet then he grabbed his walker. Ed twisted in his chair so he could follow his progress.

_He's heading to the bookcase… first time I saw all those books, I figured Joe had bought them by the yard… surprised the hell outta me when I found out he actually spends his time reading… and it sounds like I was right about what Beale did to the First Dep…._

Ed gulped hard against a surge of nausea just as Joe stopped before his bookcase. He ran his finger along a shelf filled with slim volumes until he found the one he wanted, but he did not remove the book from the shelf.

"'But only agony," Joe recited, his voice thick with sadness, "and that has ending;

And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.'"

He then turned back toward Ed.

"Rupert Brooks wrote that. He called the poem 'Peace.' Tony might have found peace, but now I can't tell him I don't blame him anymore. I want to, but I can't."

Joe began to walk back to the sofa. The _thud_ of walker against wood floor punctuated his next words.

"Tony dead, Sylvia and Paulie grieving, me and this damn walker—y'know, Ed, it's all your fault."

As accustomed to his partner's subject changes as Ed was, this one left him too stunned to reply. Joe settled back onto the sofa and glared at his speechless friend until Ed found his voice.

"Bro, you don't really believe that?"

Joe shook his head.

"No, I do not. That would be _post hoc, propter hoc_ and completely false. However—you remember the Bewler case?"

Ed scrambled to recall the specifics.

"Dude who got run over after exposing himself to little girls?" he replied. "Yeah, I remember. What does that—"

Joe held up a hand to shush him.

"After we wrapped up that case, you practically frog-marched me to McMullen's so we could smooth the feathers you said I ruffled with SVU."

"Joe," Ed told him, "you fixed it so that those girls' parents got mad at SVU and not us for suspecting them. I thought a pitcher or two might make things right. Besides, you said you could use SVU to prove that cops don't ski."

_Damn stupid bet—not that I minded winning it…._

Joe nodded to affirm the facts.

"You do realize that, if I wasn't at McMullan's that night, I wouldn't have meet Judith. I wouldn't have fallen for her, and then spent so much time in her squadroom."

_Okay… now I see where you're going with this….._

Ed took up the chain of events from Joe.

"And that squadroom is where Beale probably recognized you as the one person who could blow the whistle on his drug and rape schemes, which is why he leaned on the First Dep to get you fired, which led to all the other shit you went through."

Joe aimed a rueful glare at the walker then his arm cast.

"And," he said, "also led to Tony's suicide and a lot of other crap besides, none of which we can change by sitting here and yakking about it."

He grabbed for the bar above him.

"What say you and me head into the kitchen and see if we can hurry things along?"

Joe was out of his chair and had his walker in hand before Ed could get to his feet.

_Man's moving like he's running away from something… and I get the idea he would have blamed me for this if he could… it's like he feels responsible… or guilty… but that's stupid…._

Eighth Floor

One Hogan Place

16 August 12:10 p.m.

Joe Fontana was not the only person ducking uncomfortable situations.

_I've managed to avoid both Arthur and Jack all morning… it helps that Arthur is busy fighting fires over in Sex Crimes and Jack is at the courthouse… he gave me a list of Beale's victims, told me to schedule meetings with them then he left and I haven't seen him since…._

Alex Borgia crossed the last name on that list of Beale's victims then she dropped it into the shredder on the floor by her desk.

_No records are to be kept of those names…._

She then checked the hall outside her niche of an office.

_I don't see Jack or Arthur… maybe I can make it to the restroom without running into them… when I came in this morning, I overheard them wondering how Randy Dworkin learned about Beale blackmailing Balzano… the last thing I want is to have to explain what I did… I know telling Detective Otten was the right thing to do—at least, I think it's right… I'm just not sure they will see it that way…._

Borgia checked the hall again then she walked quickly to the women's restroom. A clerk from the Appeals Bureau whom Alex knew slightly called out a hello. Alex gave her a tight fake smile in response.

_Just keep my head low… try not to attract attention… hope no one decides to investigate the matter… hope Detective Otten keeps her promise not to tell anyone I told her everything… basically, just hope I can avoid the whole Beale thing until it blows over…._

She pushed open the restroom door.

_Oh, crap—that's Novak from Sex Crimes…._

As far as Casey Novak was concerned, the news about her boss hit her like chin music from Roger Clemens.

_I spent the weekend in Bristol, Connecticut—my little brother's team made the Little League regionals… they lost to Maryland by one run, but hey—how many teams make it that far? My parents and I were in the stands yelling ourselves hoarse for them… westayed for the championship game so I got back very late Sunday night then almost overslept… I didn't find out about my boss until I got into work Monday morning…._

The story came together from bits and pieces from Casey's coworkers, but Casey learned more when Arthur Branch called the Sex Crimes Bureau together in the office's conference room.

_The DA said our boss had been under investigation since last month… and that Captain Cragen suspected him based on his actions, which were consistent with those of a sexual predator grooming his prey… at the behest of the DA, Don continued to befriend Andrew while Jack McCoy investigated Beale… unfortunately, they didn't find anything before Andrew showed up at Don's house with date rape drugs, a video camera, and a Kel-Tec… Don had to defend himself… as Arthur put: 'End of story'… we all just stared at him… I'll bet everyone was thinking what I was thinking: 'We're Sex Crimes—how in hell could our boss be a predator?'… Arthur finished up by saying Beale had done some damn fine work, but his actions last night negated all of it and tarnished the reputation of the office… I guess that means no memorial plaque or collection for funeral flowers…._

As soon as the meeting ended, Casey called Olivia to see if she knew how Cragen was doing. The call went to voicemail so Casey left a message while she walked back to her office.

_Everyone's talking about Andrew—how no one suspected and no one knew… some are already angling for his job—pulling strings and making contacts, trying to get Arthur to name them Interim Bureau Chief… they can have it…._

She plopped into her chair.

_Barely nine-thirty and I'm already wiped… good thing I'm not due in court this morning…._

The side chair across the desk from her caught her attention.

_Don was there last month… we had lunch and went over the Erastais Management cases… he asked me if Andrew was any good at helping people get ahead… he must have been pumping me for info about Beale… I thought he was worried about his own promotion… I told him Andrew was the best at helping people get ahead… I said, "Look at all the guys he's helped: Keith and Randy, Jim and—oh God, Marc Newman… I told him about Marc… Arthur didn't say a words about other victims… but I know predators don't start out stalking big game… they start with weak victims who can't fight back… easy marks… like Marc?_

Casey's phone rang. The call was from a defense attorney who offered condolences then asked if the upheaval caused by the bureau chief's death might lead to a continuance in his client's trial

_As if I'd let that happen…._

Olivia's return call came almost as soon as Casey ended the first call.

_Liv told me Don was resting comfortably but was worn out from giving statements… she suggested I visit him later this afternoon or tomorrow… she gave me his room number then said Don's sister was sitting with him… it's good Don has family to help out… then Liv told me about Fin and John… my God—I didn't know… and I'm never leaving town again… too much hell breaks loose whenever I do…._

A clerk stopped by Novak's opened door. Casey cradled the receiver between her ear and shoulder before beckoning the clerk inside.

"I thought you'd want to know," the clerk said. "Fin Tutuola is on Brad Spivak's show right now. I know you have a radio."

Through the receiver, Casey heard Benson chuckle.

_Yes, I have a radio… with sports websites blocked here, how else can I listen to afternoon games?_

Casey waved her thanks to the clerk. As she fished the pocket radio from her desk drawer, she asked Olivia how Fin could be on a talk show while he was in the hospital.

"_I don't know,_" Benson replied. "_Maybe the DCPI sprung him to do publicity_. _ Look, I know you probably want to know what really went down last night, but I'm not cleared to talk about Beale. In fact, I may never be._"

Casey thought again about Marc Newman.

"I'm thinking there are other victims," she told Benson. "Living victims who might not know what was done to them. You know anything about that?"

After a long pause, Olivia replied, "_I know that, if Beale victimized anyone else, we're gong to do our damndest to protect their privacy."_

"Good, that's good."

_And it is good… right now, the last thing we need around here is rumors about who Beale raped… everyone trying to remember if they remember spending time with Beale and freaking out if they can't… wondering if they forgot because it was really boring or if Beale fed them roofies.…_

Olivia ended the call with a promise to call as soon as things eased up for her. Casey then tuned her radio to the station carrying 'Spivak in the Morning.'

_I caught the last couple of minutes… Fin made it sound easy—like he stops suicide bombers every day and twice on Sunday… I know better… I've seen his face when he thinks no one's looking… it doesn't matter how well-trained you are or how much experience you have or how well you seem to handle the danger… stuff like this still rips you up inside..._

Fin's interview ended at the bottom of the hour, but Casey kept the radio on through the news break.

_They're searching the harbor for the First Deputy Commissioner? Branch didn't say anything about him—surely it's coincidence… it has to be…._

Casey turned the radio off then she picked up her notes for an upcoming trial and began to read through them.

_But people kept interrupting me, coming into my office to talk… the guys all seemed nervous—just like me, they've either handled predator cases or heard enough to know Beale didn't wake up one day last month and decide to rape a police captain… they know Don wasn't his first victim… all of them were scared and trying not to show it… I pointed out to them that Beale was helping Don get promoted… if that was part of his M.O., then, unless Beale was giving them job advice, they're probably okay... that made Kirby and Tom ease up on the worrying, but Alejandro went pale and left here in a hurry…._

Casey shoved a pile of folders aside with more force than was necessary so she could rest her elbows on a level surface and cradle her head in her hands.

_Poor guy… he's safe now… now, the women who stopped by—none of them were worrying about Beale attacking them… Trina and Angie were trying to process things—both wondering how Beale managed to make bureau chief without anyone discovering his sex habits… wondering what made him so sick and twisted… God, if I knew that, I could save thousands of victims… on the other hand, Heather wanted my help in ranking the male ADAs and clerks based on their 'Beale quotient'—she actually used that phrase… I told her it was completely inappropriate then she called me a stick and told me to lighten up… Michelle was worse… she was pumping me for details based on testimony I'd gotten from other sodomy victims… as soon as I figured out it was for her own amusement, I told her to get out of my office… if she wants titillation, she can look it up on the Internet for herself… I then closed my office door, shut my blinds, and pretended I wasn't in…._

When bladder pressure urged Casey to leave her office, she headed for the stairwell.

_I've had all the gossip and garbage I can take… I'm going to find a restroom on another floor—one not filled with Sex Crimes personnel…._

The women's facilities on the eighth floor was blessedly free of gossip and garbage.

_And of people… I should come up here more often…._

Casey was washing up when the outer door opened. She glanced left to see who was entering.

_Oh, shit—it's McCoy's ADA… and she looks scared…._


	36. Monday, Monday: Part Four

Author's Chapter Notes:

Kings County: Kings County Hospital Center, where Cragen is being treated

FDC: acronym for First Deputy Commissioner

17 Battery Place really does have ceiling art: check out "" then click on Virtual Tours for the lobby

Sabrett: brand of hot dog sold from carts in the city

Herc deployment: the Hercules Teams are small groups of heavily-armed officers used by the NYPD to counter terrorism. One of their duties is to perform "asymmetrical, unpredictable" sweeps around the city. For the story, I'm having them use the round-up of Crespo's thugs as a training exercise.

ESU: Emergency Services Unit of the NYPD

Detective Special: a .38 special revolver made by Colt that was issued by the NYPD before the switch to semi-automatic pistols in 1993. Both Fontana and Otten have been on the job long enough to have them.

Westheimer location: Otten's home is at 734 Westheimer Street, Brooklyn (fictitious address)

Fort Washington location: the townhouse of Otten's parents (also fictitious)

_Persona non grata_: Latin for "an unwelcome person," someone shunned and left unprotected by the group who rejected him

NYPD Harbor Unit: I'm almost certain this location is correct

BAT: Brooklyn Army Terminal, originally a five million square-foot military depot and supply base, now a office and light manufacturing complex run by the New York City Economic Development Corporation.

Gunwale: the upper edge of a boat's side

OCME: Office of the Chief Medical Examiner

Bell buoy #32: there's a Flickr image of this very buoy in wildvanilla's photostream

As noted elsewhere, the police procedures and policies in this chapter do not reflect actual NYPD policies and procedures. Although I strive for verisimilitude, everything has been tailored to suit this story. Events also move faster than they would in Real Life. Some characters curse in this chapter.

Eighth Floor Women's Restroom

One Hogan Place  
16 August (Monday) 12:11 p.m.

Alex Borgia stared back at the red-haired ADA at the restroom's sink.

_Just act normal… it's natural for her to be staring at me… she knows I helped bring her boss' perversions to light… but I don't want to talk about it… I just want to pee in peace…._

She stepped into the room, letting the outer door close behind her as she said, "Hey, Casey."

_How about you say "Hey" back then leave immediately without asking me anything?_

Novak failed to read Alex's mind.

"Hi," she replied. "You look beat. Did McCoy make you work yesterday?"

Alex gave Novak's fishing attempt a half-smile.

"I was at the hospital with Captain Cragen last night. He's going to be okay."

She then ducked into the first stall.

_Maybe she is too polite to talk through a closed door…. _

"Yeah, Detective Benson told me that," Novak called to her through that closed door. "You know, a head's up from you about Andrew would have been nice."

Alex shook her head at the ADA's obtuseness.

_Do you warn the coworkers of your suspects…?_

"C'mon, Casey. You know I couldn't—"

"I know, I know," Novak replied. "It's just that coming in today and finding out that not only is Andrew a predator, but he's also dead…."

The long sigh that punctuated Novak's plaint reminded Alex to be kind.

_It's the same shock I felt Saturday after the meeting in Detective Stabler's back yard… me realizing everything we feared about Beale was true… all the fallout from this is going to land right on Sex Crimes… people laughing at them for not recognizing the sex criminal in their own office… they should start wondering who else made it through the vetting process… hackers in the Cybercrimes… murderers in HIU… maybe mobsters in Rackets… if Beale could slip through, who else could have?_

When Alex left the stall, Novak was leaning against the counter, her back to the mirror, her arms folded across her chest. Her position left Alex just enough room to use the sink.

_Casey doesn't look too eager to head back to her office…._

"Things rough up there in Sex Crimes?"

The chuckle that answered Alex's question held no humor.

"Oh, you got that right," Casey said as Alex washed her hands. "We're all in shock—except the ones hoping to move into Andrew's office. Some people have no shame."

"Tell me about it," Alex replied.

_Actually, don't tell me… just let me dry my hands and get out of here…._

Novak followed Borgia to the towel dispenser.

"When Arthur broke the news to us this morning," she said, "he only named Don Cragen as Andrew's victim—intended victim, I mean—but we both know predators start small. They hurt animals and younger siblings then work up to adults, each victim a little more of a challenge as their skill and experience grows."

She then lowered her voice.

"Don was in my office last month. He said Andrew was helping him with his promotion, and he asked me if Andrew had been successful with anyone else. Was that part of the investigation? Was Don fishing for the names of other victims?"

Alex shook her head.

_I can answer that one honestly…._

"I didn't get involved with this until last week so I don't know what Captain Cragen was up to then."

Novak leaned forward, moving further into Alex's personal space.

"Can you at least tell me if any of Andrew's victims work with me? There's a lot of guys upstairs who are worried—more like scared spitless. As soon as Arthur mentioned date rape drugs, they all starting wondering what, if anything, they didn't remember…."

Novak let her sentence trail off. Alex shook her head.

"Casey, I can't comment on any of this. You know I can't..."

_I really wish I could… except I've already said too much… but it's not right for people to be scared if they don't need to be…._

"…but, how about I bring this to Arthur's attention?" she continued. "Maybe he can assure the guys that Beale was only after Cragen and not them."

_Except we don't know… maybe some of them really were next on Beale's list…._

"I'd appreciate that," Novak said. "Anything to ease the stress right now will be a big help."

"Maybe you should put your name in for Beale's job," Alex told her. "It sounds like you're the only one thinking clearly."

Casey held bold hands up as though warding off Alex's suggestions.

"No, no," Novak replied, shaking her head vehemently as she spoke. "Don't even say that as a joke. There's no way I'd want to be bureau chief, not the way things are now."

"I'm sure Arthur will go outside Sex Crimes for a replacement," Alex assured her. "In a few days, things will settle down and everything will be back to normal."

Casey's mouth twisted into a wry smile.

"Yeah, right. Like I believe that."

Alex sighed.

_Yeah, I don't believe it, either…._

500 Block on West Fifty-Seventh Street

16 August 12:15 p.m.

Fin Tutuola sat in the passenger seat of Sergeant Conner's Taurus and tried to breathe without hurting his ribs.

_Except the walk to the car took the wind outta me… it's what I get for acting tough… I played down the busted ribs and how much they hurt when I told Sgt. Conner I was good for these interviews… damn stupid thing to do… I should have thought about the walking and the elevators and all the getting into and out of chairs… should have told her 'No' and gone home to bed…. _

Fin reached into his jacket pocket for the prescription pain pills he had picked up at the hospital pharmacy.

_Sgt. Conner suggested I get them filled before we left in case I needed them… she also sent a uniform to the One-Six to get a change of clothes from my locker… I know she wanted me looking good for the media, but I still appreciate it… just like I appreciate the water she snagged for me before we left the building…._

A swig from the water bottle helped swallow the pain pill.

_I'm stiffening up real bad sitting here… Conner's outside on her cell phone… don't know what she's saying or to whom… must be important because she's frowning… frowning don't look good on her face…._

He leaned back against the seat and took a guess as to the subject of the sergeant's conversation.

_It's got to be the First Dep… learned about him during the Spivak interview—he asked what I thought about Balzano's being dead… all I could say was I didn't believe it—and I still don't, but it's true… Sgt. Conner confirmed it with One P.P during the interview then she told me about it afterward… she said they're searching the river for his body… I never would of guessed he'd off himself… and not by drowning, neither… the next radio station she took me to, the host asked me if I had served with Balzano and what he was like as a CO… he wasn't interested in yesterday's shit…._

Fin took another sip of his water.

_Swallowing hurts, but not as much as breathing… doc said I had to force myself to breathe deep or I could get pneumonia… also said it would be a month or two before everything stopped hurting... he said two weeks riding a desk… damn, I hate desk duty… I didn't tell that talk show host how Balzano was a ball-buster—man's dead so he deserves some good said about him… I said he was an honest cop, tough but fair… that much is true… I didn't say anything about him hating Cap'n Cragen—Deputy Inspector Cragen… don't sound right yet… I gotta go by and see him… maybe Sgt. Conner can take me by Kings County when she drives me home—if I ever get to go home… for all I know, they're gonna fly me to LA for more interviewing…._

He glanced through the window at Conner in time to see the sergeant pocket her phone.

_Must be time for the next one… I think she said it was with reporters at One P.P…._

Fin twisted carefully in his seat to reach the shoulder belt while Conner got into the driver's seat. Although she had her keys in-hand, she did not start the car. Instead, the sergeant turned toward Fin and peered at him as though concerned about him.

_I like that look on her face…._

"How about," she asked, "I drive you home?"

Fin jerked in surprise then he stifled a wince when his ribs ached from the motion.

"No more interviews?"

Conner answered his question with a nod.

"No more today, at least," she told Fin. "The DCPI didn't like the questions you were getting about the FDC so they're pulling you in. He said, if there's enough interest in you and what you did after this mess is resolved, then we'll send you out again."

She inserted the key and started the car.

"But, for now," she continued, "you're off the hook."

Fin braced himself against the surge of the Taurus pulling into traffic.

"I'm good with that," he told her.

"I thought you might be, what with you telling me how much you didn't want to do these interviews. The FDC dying when he did is a real stroke of luck for you."

Fin sagged back against the seat.

"It's not luck," he told her. "It's too messed up for luck."

Conner shrugged off his disapproval as she drove toward the river.

"Balzano treated women like dirt, black women especially. I can't say I'm sad he's dead. He could have died sooner for all I care."

Conner was so adamant that Fin recalled everything he remembered about his dealings with the First Deputy Commissioner.

_She's wrong about that.… _

"Balzano was my CO right out of the academy," Fin told her. "I saw him mentor female cops, Jewish cops, black cops—so long as they bled blue, he was fine with them."

_And I can't believe I'm sticking up for him… but I never saw Balzano be racist… only thing that set him off was disloyalty… that's why he acted the way he did after Operation Chestnut… he hates Cragen for choosing honesty over loyalty and he let his hate slop over on us… but that's not racism… that's stupid…._

Conner sped up to catch the light at W. Fifty-fifth and the 9A. As soon she had completed the left turn, she took her eyes from the road long enough to glare at Fin.

"You don't know nothing," she sneered. "I worked in the same building as him, and I saw what I saw, and that man is racist."

Fin held his face still to hide his irritation at her attitude..

_Keep it cool… she out-ranks me and she's my ride home… fine with me if she don't want to hear another point of view… we'll be near the stationhouse in a few minutes… I can cut this ride short if I want to drive myself home…._

They caught the red light at West Forty-Seventh. Fin pointed through the windshield at the road ahead.

"If you turn left on Thirty-ninth," he said, "you can drop me at my car."

_I can stop in the squadroom and get my phone from Dan, too…._

Conner glared at him then said, "I tell you the truth about Balzano so you're bailing on me?"

Fin held up his hands, palms towards her, to placate her,

"I'm thinking life will be easier if I have my car," he replied. "Far as Balzano's concerned, maybe we both saw what we wanted to see."

The sudden chill that filled the interior had nothing to do with the car's air conditioner. The sergeant kept her attention on the traffic and said nothing more to Fin. When she arrived at Fin's Taurus, her offer to assist him was abrupt and insincere. His own thanks for the ride and for Conner's help at the hospital was more genuine.

_She's good at her job… let's leave it at that…._

Residence of Joseph Fontana  
17 Battery Place  
16 August 1:53 p.m.

Ed Green wheeled his bike into the elevator then pushed the button for the ground floor. As the door closed, he considered the past two hours.

_The food was great… Judith made me something with macaroni, feta cheese, spinach and spices… the curry looked good, too—except for the meat… but, man, it sucks to be Joe and Judith right now… watching them pick at their food, spending more time listening for sirens or a phone call than talking or chewing… Joe tried to make light of it, saying it would be great to stand on his terrace again and to sit upright in a car instead of hunkering down on the floor… assuming his attorney is correct and Joe's watchers will be collared and brought in—hate to think about the two of them getting their hopes up for nothing…._

When the elevator door opened, Ed wheeled his bike through the lobby, taking time to admire the ceiling frescos while ignoring the glare of the building's doorman.

_My tires ain't hurting your floor…._

Once outside, Ed took a moment to adjust to the bright sunlight and the heat coming off the pavement.

_A couple drinking iced coffees together, and a solo male with a laptop and earbuds, all Caucasian, all mid-thirties, all sitting at the café tables under that canopy on my left… couple of decades from now, when the puny-ass trees planted here grow big enough, people will sit their shade… there's a mom working to get her baby carriage through the door of the drug store on my right… pedestrians crossing to Battery Park—parents with two kids toting backpacks… black dude in a suit across the street talking on his cell phone… two Asian women at the bus stop… and the same man who was hanging around when I got here… he was at a table before… now, he's sitting on one of the granite blocks protecting the trees… Hispanic, twenty-five… got some expensive bling… baggy clothes hiding any weapons print… if Joe's guards haven't pegged him as Crespo's, then they ain't worth their pay… now, where would I stand if I wanted to keep an eye on this dude?_

Crespo's thug glanced at Ed as he carried his bike down the stairs to street level.

_Please don't recognize me… I don't need anybody gunning for me…._

Ed set his bike on the pavement then he bent over and pretended to fuss with his handlebars while scanning the area for Praesidium operatives.

_Maybe it's the man with the laptop… there's also a man standing on the corner of Washington—Caucasian, my height and age, cargo shorts, blue cotton shirt open at the collar… he's eating a Sabrett's… I'm guessing it's him… although that suit across the street is facing this way… really makes no never mind to me… just curious…. _

Ed grabbed his bike by the handle bar and turned to his right to cross West Street.

_I'll save a few minutes skipping the Esplanade and taking the Greenway… get home in time to clean up for my shift… no Cassady this week… can't say I mind—hey, watch it!_

Two black Chevy Suburbans turning from Battery Place cut the corner tight, both barely missing the rear of Ed's bike. The first sped up West Street then hit its brakes by the building's parking garage. The second jumped the curb and skidded to a controlled stop in front of the main entrance. A third Suburban drove down Battery Place and rounded the corner onto Washington then it disappeared behind the building.

For a moment, Ed stood stunned by the near miss but, when the doors of both Suburbans opened and the occupants poured out, he broke into a wide grin.

_The cavalry has arrived… three apprehension teams—five men from each vehicle, all in full body armor and armed with M-4 carbines… looks like a Herc deployment…._

Ed leaned his bike against one of the traffic bollards that lined the walkway so he could watch the show. He saw the team further up West Street run into the parking garage while the team closer to him dashed towards the man on the granite block. Before the thug could get to his feet and bolt, three men encircled him, their weapons aimed at him; two others kept their eyes on the building entrances and surrounding area.

_Making sure no one comes to his aid… those women waiting for the bus are ignoring the action… the couple at the table are in shock—same with the tourist family across the street… the dude with the laptop hasn't looked up from his screen, but I see his lips moving—okay, so he's the operative and he's reporting in… Sabrett man is showing no interest… and the suit across the street… is staring at me…._

Ed nodded once in the direction of the suit, who nodded in reply then shifted his attention back to the raid in-progress.

_Hercules Teams always have observers watching their deployments… not to see if they do it right, but to watch the civilians and their reactions… anyone acting hinky gets further attention from Intel… if the suit knows who I am, then they've really done their homework and fast…._

Two RMPs and a NYPD transport van pulled up by the black Suburban. The now-handcuffed thug was marched to the rear of the transport then secured inside it. From around the corner, two more Hispanics were brought to the van.

_That's one from the public entrance and two from the residents' entrance… wonder how many are in the garage? _

Ed pulled out his cell phone.

_I gotta call Joe… tell him the commissioner sent out the big guns for him…._

Right after Ed left Joe's place, Arndt, the Praesidium operative, received a message from Krepsmeier, the operative watching the street entrance.

_Notification that the cavalry was about to ride over the hill… seems that, while Judith and Ed and me were eating lunch, Praesidium was coordinating with ESU… Arndt sent Judith and me to my room just in case some of Crespo's thugs elude capture, enter the building, and attack my home… not too likely, but that's what I'm paying for—total security for me and Judith… Meron is on the door, weapon drawn with Arndt backing him up…._

Joe leaned against the side of his bed, his walker beside him. His right hand was wrapped around the grip of a Detective Special he had borrowed from Judith, and his cell phone lay on the covers by his left hand. Otten stood at the foot of the bed. Her jacket lay on the bedspread by her, and the strap securing her Glock in its shoulder holster was loose.

_I wanted her in the bathroom in case someone gets past Meron and Arndt and me… she wanted to be between me and the foyer because I'm a sitting duck… we compromised… I'm closer to the door, but she has the better view…._

The bedroom's shades were drawn and the lights off, leaving the room lit only by the natural light that made its way around the edges of the closed vertical blinds.

_The main rooms are dark, too… anything to confuse an intruder… this is overkill… completely unnecessary… the teams will mop up Crespo's thugs without breaking a sweat…._

He glanced at Judith. Although the dimness hid her expression, Joe could tell she was not relaxed.

_Feet planted, hand on the bedpost as though ready to use it for cover… yeah, this may be overkill, but she knows as well as I do—not a damn thing has gone right since I got canned… why should today be any different?_

"Your partner has cleared the building," Arndt whispered from the hall, "and the teams are moving in."

"How many teams?" Judith asked.

"Five in total," Arndt replied. "Three for the public, resident, and garage entrances to this building, and one each at your house and your parents' townhouse."

Joe shook his head over the number of teams.

_When Bradley drove Judith to her parents' place last night, he spotted two Hispanic 'youths' watching the townhouse from the wall surrounding Bennett Park… when he called to tell me, I asked him to add another operative to keep an eye on them… this morning, they—or two just like them—were still outside the townhouse… I told Judith about it when she got here… she started to shake… me, too—damn thugs tracked her down too damn quick for my liking…._

Seconds stretched into minutes, the silence broken only by his and Judith's breathing. Finally, Arndt whispered again.

"The men watching the public and resident entrances are in custody. Same with the two at the Westheimer location. Kreps says they're sweeping the parking garage for the rest of them. You should know—the team found a couple of jimmies on the floor of the second level. It's possible they were breaking into cars in the hope of finding pass cards for the building."

"That," Judith whispered, "is not good."

"No, it is not," Joe replied. "Sounds like these raids are just in time."

_Otherwise, those thugs might be busting their way in… if I survived, the co-op board would demand I move out… Judith would have to repack all her things… and I'm worrying about that because the idea of a gunfight in our home is more than I want to think about…._

Arndt's hushed voice gave another update.

"Fort Washington location secured; two in custody."

Judith's whispered "Good" was punctuated by the buzzing of Joe's cell on the bed next to him. He flipped it open with his left hand and, and when he recognized the number, he brought the phone to his ear.

"Fontana."

"_You're missing the show, bro,"_ Ed's voice informed him. "_I'm watching three Hercules Teams handle your Crespo problem."_

Joe decided to make light of his partner's news.

"So I'm told. Seems like overkill to me."

_It's easy to sound carefree since Ed can't see us blacked out and hiding…._

"_I'd stay for the rest," _Ed continued,_ "but I got to get home and change. You call me, let me know how it goes, right?"_

Joe promised to fill Green in on the disposition of the raids then he ended the call.

_Ed's watching like it's entertainment… sort of makes all these precautions look really—_

"Shots fired in the garage," Arndt announced.

Joe's hand tightened on the grip of the revolver. Neither he nor Judith moved or made a sound during the minutes that followed. Finally, Joe heard Arndt whisper something to Meron then the foyer light came on. It shone on Arndt, now standing in the bedroom doorway.

"Mind your eyes," Arndt said before flicking on the overhead light. "We can stand down. ESU reports one target down, three in custody. One officer sustained bruising and will need a new vest, but there are no other injuries."

Joe let go of the revolver and flexed his fingers.

_That 'target down' better be the son of a bitch who shot that officer…._

"So this is over."

Judith's voice, to Joe, sounded a bit shrill. He saw Arndt frown before answering.

"Ma'am," he said, "I'm not willing to say you two are out of danger. All ESU did was take care of the known threats. There's still the possibil—"

"No, there isn't," she snapped at him. "Anacasis was beaten to death so he can't hire more hit men. Golja's nephew cut a deal and his uncle is now in solitary for ordering Joe's murder. Crespo just ran out of thugs, and those teams downstairs mean the message is out—open season on Joe is over."

Judith turned around and marched to the corner of the room, where she reached for the cords of the vertical blinds.

"Detective," Arndt called, "that may not be a good—"

The sound of vertical blinds being drawn cut off his words. Light from the terrace windows silhouetted Judith before a view of the Financial District.

"Good idea or not," she snapped back at Arndt, "I'm damn sick of hiding while skels stalk my family. With Anacasis, Golja, Crespo gone, there are no more threats. Right, Joe?"

Even though she was backlit, Joe could see Judith was trembling.

_What with everything, it's a wonder she hasn't cracked before now…._

He opened his mouth to agree, but the memory of Rob Dolan's fingers snapping in front of Joe's nose made the hair on his neck bristle.

_But Dolan wants me to live a long, miserable life and die in agony… that's not the same thing as wanting to kill me… which is why I never mentioned him to Praesidium or Judith…._

Joe pointed his thumb at Arndt.

"I gave them all the threats, the letters and the e-mails, and I told them about the phone calls so they could check them out. Near as we can tell, there aren't any other plausible threats."

Next to Joe, Arndt continued to frown, but Judith drew in a deep breath as though she had run out of air while waiting for his reply.

"So," she said, "Dante and Janet can start moving their things into my house, and I can get back to planning our wedding?"

Joe placed his hand on the bed beside him, using it as a support as he made his way to the bedpost. Once there, he grabbed the post then he swung his left arm out and forward.

_I can't cross the room without help, and I can't hold you if you don't get close enough…. _

To his relief, Judith took his action as an invitation. When she got near him, he swung his left arm up and placed his hand on her shoulder. The added weight of his arm cast made the caress more like a thumping, but, to Joe's relief, Judith brought her hand up to cover his.

"Of course," he told her. "Just keep letting the guys drive you around—at least until we can go car shopping together."

He glanced at Arndt, who nodded his approval.

Below his hand, Joe felt Judith start to relax then she smiled at him.

_Great… I've made everyone happy…._

"Okay," she replied, "but, when you meet with the commissioner, you need to make sure he announces that you're back on the force. Tell him to let everyone know you're not _persona not grata_ anymore."

Joe's comforting smile wavered.

_Yeah, me ordering the commissioner around… getting my shield back… all my troubles over… all it took was for Tony to kill himself…._

NYPD Harbor Unit, Harbor "Charlie"

Brooklyn Army Terminal

16 August 3:49 p.m.

_Whoever thought to put up a tarp deserves a commendation… and my heartfelt thanks…._

Commissioner Richardson stood under the blue tarp, which stretched from the light stanchions on the building behind him to the superstructure of the blue and white Harbor Unit launch tied up at Harbor Charlie's pier, its gunwales even with the concrete surface. The launch's crew was on the boat's aft deck, watching as two men from the OCME positioned a gurney on the pier by the launch.

Overhead, a police helicopter was keeping watch, far enough above the pier to prevent its rotor wash from disturbing the tarp. Its engine drowned out the noise from the two news choppers Richardson knew were hovering over the Bay Ridge Channel, their view of the proceedings blocked by the tarp.

_I know why they're here… and we're not letting them have what they want…._

His black Suburban was parked by a fuel pump on the pier beside a van from the ME's office, both of them partially in the shape of the tarp.

_They want photos of us unloading Tony's body… damn ghouls are probably hoping someone will slip and drop him in the water… I aim to disappoint them—in fact, I aim to completely piss them off…._

Beside Richardson stood the person who would serve to anger the city's press corps on the commissioner's behalf. He was a tall man in his forties, his sandy hair and fair complexion protected from the wind and sun by amber sunglasses and a ball cap with the New York Ledger's logo on its front.

"Commissioner," Jerry Wilks said, his voice pitched to carry over the sound of the helicopter above him, "will you be the one identifying the body?"

Richardson nodded. "The family has been through enough today," he replied.

The Ledger's state house reporter made a note in his pad.

"Shouldn't there be more city and police officials here?" Wilks then asked.

Richardson stifled a rude comment.

_If Tony had gone out honorably, damn right the Mayor would be here... but he's not… as for my people…._

"If this were a normal day, there would be," he agreed, "but, with everything else that has happened, I thought it best if I handled this myself."

Wilks noted the commissioner's reply then he turned his attention to the launch, where four officers were preparing to lift a body bag up to the personnel on the pier.

_I called and offered Wilks this story as an exclusive… I owe him back for backing off on the Marc Newman angle when I asked him to… it also gives me control of what Wilks writes: he must focus only on Newman and Cragen as Beale's victims—no hint that there might be other victims, he must produce a balanced account of Tony's actions and what prompted them—no more mud on his memory than is necessary, and he has to use enough ink to wipe clean Fontana's reputation… Wilks signed off on the restrictions without complaint, which means we get our version of what happened in front of the public first… we control the message…._

Richardson straightened to attention as the officers on the dock received the body bag from the boat crew and placed it on the gurney. While they secured the body, Richardson ran though the many other obstacles between him and his goal.

_I need Sylvia and Paul to understand I'm trying to preserve Tony's good name as much as I'm trying to protect the department… if Sylvia thinks we're hiding something, she could make a fuss and bring to light things she doesn't want known—same with Paul… I had Ed Wilson talk to Paul personally about his being one of Beale's victims… Ed said that went badly… Paul thinks he's the cause of everything his father did—in a way, it's true, but there's more to his father's motives… so far, we've contacted six of the other eleven victims… none took the news well… Branch said neither did the city's attorney nor the insurance company rep—we're looking at hundreds of thousands in pay-outs over this… and there's Fontana… the consensus at this morning's meeting was to give him his shield, a fulsome apology, a large settlement then hope like hell it's enough to buy him off… him and Sylvia are the two who can derail our plans… force us to air all of Tony's and Beale's dirty linen for everyone to see…._

The gurney, guided by the ME's people and now accompanied by four officers, began to make its way toward Richardson. Wilks again cleared his throat.

"I'll wait over there," he said, his thumb indicating the parked vehicles. "It's close enough to observe without being too close, if you get my drift."

Richardson smiled to thank the reporter for his offer of privacy.

_Mind if I go with you? This is one duty I'd be happy to slough off…._

He hid his reluctance behind a grim frown as the gurney and its honor guard came to a halt before him. Richardson acknowledged the officers' salutes with a nod before turning to the other two men.

"Assistant ME Brody," the bald one introduced himself then he indicated the other man. "This is McAllister. I gather you're here to formally identify the body?"

When Richardson said that he was, McAllister went to the head of the gurney. The honor guard stepped back, giving the assistant ME room to work and space for the commissioner to draw closer. When Richardson did so, McAllister unzipped the body bag, exposing the head and upper chest of its occupant to the commissioner's view.

_It's Tony… he must have been head down—his face, neck, and chest are purple from pooled blood… full rigor… no marks or wounds that I can see… matches what he wrote in his letter, which said he planned to swim until he exhausted himself…._

Richardson swallowed hard before stating aloud that he recognized the body as that of Anthony Balzano, a fact that Brody noted for the record.

"Where was he found?" Richardson then asked.

Brody pointed north at the channel.

"Near Bell Buoy #32," he replied. "The current carried his body against it and his pants leg snagged on something rough on its base—barnacles or maybe oysters. It kept him from sinking. That's how they—"

Brody tipped his head towards the police launch.

"—found him: feet out of the water, the rest of him immersed."

"He deserved a more dignified ending."

Brody's tight smile served as his reply. He then signaled McAllister to close the body bag.

"We'll start on him right away," he assured the commissioner. "You'll have the results late this evening."

Richardson thanked him with a nod before turning his attention to the officers still at attention before him.

_I need someone to escort Tony's body… someone who doesn't see his suicide as shameful… any of these men will do it—Harbor Unit handles so many suicides, even this one is routine…._

He quickly checked the bearing and expressions of the four men at attention before him. The eldest of the four, the one with sergeant stripes on his shirt sleeve, seemed to be having trouble keeping his expression blank. Richardson glanced at his name pin.

"Sergeant—uh, Stafford, did you know Commissioner Balzano?"

Stafford's posture became even more stiff.

"We served together in Morrisania," he replied, using the historical name of a neighborhood in the South Bronx. "It was our first assignment as sergeants—him in Admin, me in Patrol."

"Then would you do me the favor of accompanying the First Deputy Commissioner?"

Sergeant Stafford blinked rapidly as his eyes reddened.

"Yes, sir. It will be an honor to do so."

He executed a sharp quarter-turn to face the gurney as McAllister began to take Balzano's body to the van. As soon as the gurney passed Stafford, the sergeant fell in behind it.

Rather than watch his friend be loaded into the ME's van, Richardson spent some time thanking the officers who had found Balzano. Several looked as though they wanted to ask questions, but none did more than accept his praise with quiet humility. The presence of Wilks also garnered some stares, but the reporter stayed in the background and no one objected to his being there.

_I found out whose idea the tarp was… the unit's secretary… she turned beet red when I thanked her… I'll have to get Michelle to write something for me to sign for her personnel jacket…._

By the time he finished, the ME's van had departed.

_I need to leave, too… turn my phone back on and see what's waiting for me…._

But, when he and Wilks entered the rear of the Suburban and the doors closed, Richardson found his eyes tearing. He reached for his handkerchief and used it to blow his nose.

_The hell with my messages… I just saw a good friend dead…._

"This part's off the record," he told the reporter, his voice more husky than he wanted.

Wilks met the commissioner's gaze then nodded.

"Of course. No mention at all; I promise."

Richardson turned to face the window, knowing the dark tint of the windows would hide his sorrow from the curious.

_I expected this to be a great day… if there's balance in the world, someone somewhere must really be enjoying it…._


	37. So Good to Me: Part One

Inglee: the name of the Bomb Squad officer who disarmed Faizullah Eshan's vest bomb earlier in this story

"The law is an ass" was said by Mr. Bumble in Charles Dicken's "Oliver Twist."

Special Prosecutions Bureau: the part of the Manhattan DA's office that "investigates and prosecutes … employee embezzlement, fraudulent documents, insurance fraud, arson, unauthorized practice of law, thefts committed by attorneys and other professionals, bank fraud, offenses related to real estate and housing, computer offenses, and all kinds of schemes to defraud the public." (from ) Canon has Casey Novak prosecuting white collar crimes before being transferred to Sex Crimes in 2003. I chose this bureau as her pre-SVU assignment based on that fact.

In this story, two lieutenants (Van Buren and Monaghan) share command of Manhattan South Homicide (canon has the homicide squad as both Manhattan Homicide and Manhattan South Homicide.) There's probably a captain over the lieutenants, but one has never been mentioned on the show.

Audrey: the name of the plant in "Little Shop of Horrors"

SOP: standard operating procedure

Sandra Berger: In season 8, Van Buren was passed over as captain for a white woman. I'm giving this woman a name and a reason for the promotion.

Borough Commander James Deitz: from the season 8 episode "Monster," among others

Captain's course: NYPD has a four-week captain's school for the newly promoted (there's also a sergeant's and lieutenant's school.) Because I don't know how the NYPD actually handles this, I'm presuming it can be taken at the leisure of the promoted officer.

I have no idea if canon mentions Alex Borgia's dislike of sushi. In the L&O episode "Thinking Makes It So," she does turn down an offer of it from Dworkin

Events in this story move faster than they would in Real Life. Procedures and rulings in this story are designed to reflect the needs of the story, not the realities of the NYPD or the DA's office. Characters curse in this chapter.

Residence of Odafin Tutuola  
16 August (Monday) 2:05 p.m.

After Sergeant Conner dropped Fin at his car, he walked the two blocks to the precinct house to get his cell phone from his friend.

_Crime scene tape in our hall—that's wrong… good thing someone cleaned up the wall and floor… didn't need to see and smell that again… I hung around just long enough to let everyone say they're glad I'm okay and the squad's not a heap of rubble—I'd be wanting to say something thankful, too… but I ain't comfortable hearing it… and I ain't comfortable seeing Cragen's office dark and empty… Howie said he's doing fine, but we should come see him tomorrow so he can rest up today… s'okay with me—resting up is what I'm heading for myself…._

Once he was home, Fin settled himself into a chair with a bowl of soup he had zapped in the microwave. A check of the local news channel showed that the only police news being reported was Balzano's disappearance.

_Nothing about me—good… nothing about all those promotions and shit the commissioner put in place today… I'd expect the unions and the societies to be raising concerns… if they are, it ain't making the news… and I ought to call Sofarelli…. Dan told me he'd got his stripes—got SVU, too… just what I feared would happen… excepting I know this wasn't Cragen's doing… it's part of the commissioner's overhaul of the department… and Couch was stand-up yesterday… scared shitless and still did what he could to help… him recognizing the name on that kid's ID so fast helped stop the other bombers… I gotta give him credit for that… but not right now… need to check my messages first…._

Fin muted the TV so he could check the voicemail and missed calls on his cell phone.

_Looks like they maxed out my voicemail…._

Messages from reporters and news organizations he deleted unheard.

_Don't want to talk to them… I didn't do anything heroic—I was saving my own skin as much as anyone else's… besides, my business ain't none of their business… private shit should stay private…._

Messages from his squadmates and friends got a listen.

_Olivia apologizing for not coming by to see me… damn, Liv—I know you were too busy trying to help Cragen… no need to apologize for that… I can't get over how he went after Beale… wasn't a week ago he told me he was having panic attacks… now I know the why behind them… he should of told me and not gone it alone…._

Fin set his soup aside, no longer interested in eating.

_Cap'n getting stalked like that… Beale picking up on how he had made himself vulnerable—cut himself off from his people… good thing he came to his senses 'cause none of us saw it coming… makes me sick thinking about it… Liv told me about Munch, too… damn fool should know better than to rassle perps like that… could of gotten himself killed… maybe I should check in on him…._

Fin glanced at the closet where he had stashed the photo and book he had taken from Munch so many weeks before.

_Naw… he tried to expose me for shit and grins… he's no better than those reporters wanting a piece of me…._

He quickly moved to the next recorded voicemail.

_Elliot checking to see how I am… he's on admin leave for dropping that kid… offered to run errands for me… so did Judith, Loudoun and all of Howie's shift… Lake just sent his best—he ain't up to driving yet… two messages from Sofarelli—first asking if I need a ride home from the hospital… second said to call if I need anything… but I'm good… got everything I need…._

Having reached the end of his messages, Fin reached out to put the phone on the table beside his chair when it buzzed in his hand. A check of its screen showed that Sofarelli was calling again. Fin answered with his usual "Tutuola."

_"It's Couch. I'm outside your door."_

"You are?" Fin asked him. "Then why call me?"

_"Because I broke a rib once and I remember how much it hurt to get up. Figured I'd call and save you the trouble of answering my knock if you don't want company."_

"I'm good," Fin relied. "Got some soup and the remote. Don't need nothing else."

_"That's good."_

The silence that followed told Fin Couch had more on his mind.

_And I know what it is…._

"We're good on your promotion," he assured the younger man. "I know it ain't something you and Cragen finagled. It's 'cause the commissioner shook everything up so it was in 'right time, right place' for you."

_"Yep," _Couch agreed. _"Surprised the hell out of me."_

_Not me, but the last twenty-four hours have burnt me out on surprises…._

"Just make sure you don't screw this up."

_"I promise to listen to those who are wiser and more experienced—"_

Fin heard Couch pause before he said, _"—like Elliot and Olivia."_

A snort of laughter sent a stab of pain into Fin's ribs.

"You know damn well laughing hurts," he told Couch.

_"Yeah, I do. Sorry, Fin. You think you'll be coming in tomorrow?"_

"Sure. It beats sitting here. You offering a ride?"

_"Yep. Call me if you change your mind."_

"I'll do that—oh, and…."

Fin took a moment to clear his throat.

"Thanks for the shirts and towel yesterday. They helped."

_"No problem, Fin. You take it easy and I'll be by tomorrow."_

The gruffness in the younger man's voice as he said "No problem" told Fin that Couch had seen through the understatement to Fin's real message.

_What Couch did helped me keep that deadman's switch from moving… I'm alive 'cause of him and Chester and Inglee and, most of all, Elliot… ain't no good way to tell them how grateful I am for that…._

Fin promised Couch that he would take it easy.

_Don't really got a choice in the matter… just gonna sit here and breathe like the doc said to… maybe get some sleep… try not to dream about dead men and bombs and Cap'n all shot up… don't need any new nightmares… the old ones are bad enough…._

Officer of the District Attorney  
One Hogan Place  
16 August 3:17 p.m.

_I feel like I'm being called to the principal's office… I don't know why… maybe Alex told Branch about my concerns vis-à-vis the guys I work with and he wants to discuss the matter—except he could have done that on the phone…._

Casey Novak asked Sarah, Branch's secretary, but the older woman only shrugged and said she didn't know why before she offered Casey a seat. Novak perched on the edge of the chair while Sarah buzzed the DA to tell him about Casey's arrival.

When the door to Branch's office did not immediately open, Casey began to fidget.

_I've got things to do… cases to prep, calls to make… at least I'm trying to be productive… seems like everyone else is still processing what happened… we're going to lose cases if they can't get their acts together…._

Inside Branch's office, Jack McCoy tried once more to make his point.

"Arthur, all I'm saying is that she doesn't have the experience nor the ability for this. She abuses the authority of this office and she cuts corners—"

Arthur's guffaw interrupted him.

"In that case, Jack, I should demote you and every other bureau chief in this office. As much as I revere the law, sometimes I have to agree with Mr. Bumble: the law can be an ass. When it is, it deserves a good, swift kick to straighten it out. You've just admitted that Novak knows when and where to place that kick."

Jack shook his head.

_Don't make it sound like I'm supporting this… five years with Sex Crimes and some insubordination doesn't make her a bureau chief—not even a temporary one…._

"Arthur, if she blows it, you'll have to transfer her—either that or fire her. Bureau chiefs live in the public eye more than ADAs do and, what with the mess Beale made, every eye will be focused right on her."

To Jack's dismay, Arthur merely shrugged.

"I don't think we have to worry about that, Jack. You heard what Alex told us—everyone went to her for support and guidance. That proves she's a natural leader and just the person I need to clean up after Andrew."

The DA pointed at his office door.

"Why don't you call her in here so I can tell her the good news?"

Jack squared his shoulders.

"Because I'm not as certain as you are about this."

Arthur pursed his lips, a sign the discussion was over.

"Then it's a good thing I'm making the decision and not you. Now, how about the door?"

Jack got to his feet, but he made no move toward the door.

_I can stall… change the subject and hope Arthur forgets to come back to this one… it's worth a try…._

"We still need to talk about Alex," he told his boss. "Chief Conrad is certain whoever told Dworkin about Beale works in this office. That means either you or me or Alex spilled the beans, and I know it wasn't me and I don't think it was you."

Arthur frowned at Jack's less than firm vote of confidence.

_Okay, I could have worded that one better…._

"What about the investigators that searched Beale's place," Arthur asked, "Robinson and Salazar? They could have passed the word to Dworkin."

"Could be, but what would either of them gain by it?"

"It wouldn't be the first time an attorney bought himself a mole in the enemy's camp," Branch noted. "What makes you think Alexandra is his source?"

Jack ran through his evidence mentally before presenting it to the DA.

_I've been through this and through this… and, each time, it still sounds bad for Alex…._

"First, there's the way Alex insisted that we inform Fontana about Balzano and the suspected blackmail."

Arthur nodded as he said, "Yes, she did seem a mite upset."

"She was more than upset, Arthur. Alex has been taking this personally ever since Van Buren chewed her out because she thought you engineered Fontana's firing."

Arthur leaned back as though edging away from Jack's statement.

"I didn't know that."

"Well, the amount of time she spends working with the homicide squad makes it understandable how Alex might feel some loyalty to them—"

Arthur's disgusted snort interrupted Jack's sentence.

"Her loyalty should be to this office, not some disgraced detective."

"Yes, it should," Jack agreed, "and that may be why Alex has been ducking me today—because she acted on that misguided loyalty when she knows she shouldn't have."

Arthur shook his head as though saddened by the thought of Alex Borgia leaking info to a defense attorney.

"Well, she did look a mite nervous when she came in to discuss Novak's concerns about the men she works with."

Jack watched as Arthur pondered the matter.

_I don't want it to be true… if it is, I'll have to let her go… I can't afford to condone leaks—especially from my ADA…._

"I don't like this, Jack," Arthur finally said. "Unfortunately, I have Novak waiting outside so we'll have to address this matter after I get her settled in as bureau chief."

Jack hid his displeasure.

_Looks like I lost the battle… I just hope Arthur is making the right decision… and that Casey is up to the job…._

The DA glanced at his desk calendar.

"Now, I have Ed Wilson and Dworkin coming in at four-fifteen to discuss the Fontana matter. If you'd rather, I'll talk to Alexandra and you can handle those negotiations"

Arthur paused to smile at McCoy then he said, "I know how much you enjoy Dworkin's wisdom and wit."

Jack lowered his eyebrows and glared at his boss.

"'Enjoy' is not the word I'd choose," he replied.

"So," the DA told him, "I'll take that meeting, and you'll ask Alexandra about the blackmail."

The offhand way Branch gave the order made Jack frown at his boss.

_I think I just got sandbagged into interrogating my ADA… Arthur looks pleased with himself… I'll bet he won't be so pleased after a few minutes spent sparing with Dworkin…._

"Yes," he told his boss. "I'll take care of it."

Arthur blessed his decision with a tight smile.

"If it makes you feel better, talk to Salazar and Robinson first. Make sure they're not the source before you accuse Alexandra."

Jack hid a sneer at the suggestion.

_You don't think it's them… you're just giving me a reason to put off the inevitable…. _

His nod of agreement widened the DA's smile.

"Good," he said. "Now, how about you call Ms Novak in? It's time we got things settled in Sex Crimes."

Finally, Casey saw the office door opened then Jack McCoy waved her inside. Arthur Branch was standing behind his desk when she entered; he greeted Casey and offered her the chair across from him while Jack walked around the desk to stand by his boss. When the EADA crossed his arms before his chest and fixed his gaze on her, Casey winced.

_Oh, shit—this can't be good…._

As soon as she was seated, Arthur sat down and folded his hands on the desk before him.

"Casey," he said, "I'm naming you as interim bureau chief for Sex Crimes. I think you'll do an excellent job."

Casey felt her jaw drop. She glanced at McCoy and caught him shaking his head at her.

_Can't tell if it's sympathy or amusement… either way, Arthur has to be kidding… some kind of a sick joke… I need to see if he really means it…._

"Sir," she said, "there are people who have been in the bureau longer than I have. Why not one of them?"

Branch steepled his fingers then aimed them at her for emphasis.

"Because I need someone who can jump right in and straighten out the mess Andrew dumped on us. Given your ability to handle unexpected disasters and your experience with both administration and sex crimes, and the way you kept your wits about you today, you're the one I need."

He took a thin stack of papers from his desk and handed them to Casey. She leafed through them, scanning each page for its content.

_A summary of what went down between Beale and Cragen… wow, looks like Don did know about this when he talked to me… there's a description of the search of Andrew's residence and what was found… a list of his victims… oh, God—I know some of them… Peter, Marc… no…._

"Those dozen victims are to be kept in strictest confidence," McCoy told her. "Not one of them is to be mentioned outside this office. We're releasing only one name—Marc Newman."

Casey jerked her head up to stare at him.

"Have you talked to Marc's parents about this?"

McCoy's mouth puckered as though tasting acid. Branch hissed a long breath before he answered.

"Yes," he said, "and it wasn't a pleasant conversation but, in the end, they saw the wisdom of using their son to protect the living victims."

"And how did you convince them?"

The question came out sharper than Casey had intended. McCoy glared at her, but Branch smiled in response.

"It's a fair question," he told her. "We told the Newmans that their willingness to go along with our plan would spare twelve innocent men the anguish that their son endured. We also pointed out that the truth would clear their son's fiancée of causing his suicide by dumping him."

"And, just so you know," McCoy added, "we're already in the process of telling each of those victims what Beale did to them. We're offering counseling, a generous settlement, and confidentiality if they work with us."

Casey blinked at Jack's statement.

_A generous settlement—I'm glad I don't have to decide how much getting sodomized by your boss is worth…._

"We're also bracing ourselves for lawsuits," Arthur added. "Any victim who decides to sue will, of course, have to go public, but we know some people don't mind notoriety if it brings them a shot at big bucks."

He then focused his gaze back on Casey.

"So, Ms Novak, you up for the job?"

Casey sat back and considered the DA's offer.

_Is this something I want? Hell, no… is it something I can turn down? Also hell, no—not if I want to stay with the DA's office… so, Branch better be right about me being up for the job…._

"Of course, sir," she replied. "It needs to be done and I'll do my best."

Branch's smile widened.

"I know I'm asking a lot, Casey, but I also have every confidence that you'll do what is necessary to put Sex Crimes right again."

Casey glanced at the EADA. McCoy met her gaze and held it for a moment then he nodded once as though granted her his approval.

_Great… I won Jack McCoy over—either that or he bet money on me taking the job…._

As the DA continued to talk, outlining his plans to announce her new position first to her coworkers then to the media at a late afternoon press conference, the reality of her situation settled onto Casey.

_I'm the boss now… Donnelly, Beale, and now me… if I do well, I'll get the job permanently… I can't wait to see Heather's face when Arthur makes his announcement… okay, that's really petty… I should be concentrating on all the crap I have to fix, not on who'll be green with envy… first thing, I have to reassure the guys and then refocus everyone… get them thinking about our cases and not about what Beale was and did—yeah, we blew it by not catching on to him, but it's too late to fix that… we have to work together now and get past it…._

By the time Branch had finished talking, Casey was eager to take the reins.

_I can do this… in fact, it might just be fun…._

Manhattan South Homicide  
Sixteenth Precinct  
16 August (Monday)

Anita Van Buren had spent her day receiving and sending congratulatory calls and e-mails. Most of the communication included the same question.

_Why all the promotions and reassignments? I didn't know and no one I asked knew the answer… I did like Jeanetta's explanation… she said it must be sunspots…._

The news about the First Dep and his possible fate also was a major topic of those conversations.

_Sounds like the man's dead… I can't say I'm sorry… not after what he did and said to me… not after he blew off protecting Fontana… I suppose I should have more compassion—after all, men like him don't kill themselves over little things… but not today… and maybe not tomorrow, neither…._

Van Buren arrived at the squadroom her usual thirty minutes early. Unlike most days, when the bustle of detectives working their cases barely broke long enough for someone to say "Hey, Lieu—" at her arrival, today everyone stood up and applauded when she came into the room. When she entered the office she shared with Monaghan, she saw that the "Squad Commander" lettered on the door had been covered with a paper on which someone had written her name and new rank.

"Got to say," she told Monaghan, "that looks damn good."

"Hope you don't mind sharing your office with a lowly lieutenant for the next couple days," he said with a chuckle.

"Not at all," she replied, "if you don't mind helping me move to the One-Six. I've accumulated a whole lot of stuff in the past fourteen years."

Monaghan eyed her books, knick-knacks, family artwork, and the green and yellow pothos, the only one of Anita's plants that had flourished in the dim light coming through the grimy windowpanes.

"As long as you take Audrey with you," he told her. "I swear, Anita—the way that plant grows, it has to be a mutant."

Van Buren chuckled at his comment as she took a seat before their shared desk.

"I'll pack Audrey first," she said, "just to make you happy. Now, what do we have?"

Monaghan was almost through his summary of current cases when he stopped and stared through the office window into the squadroom.

"The Chief of Dees," he told Van Buren, "in four, three, two…."

Someone knocked on the door behind her then Anita heard it open. When she turned to look, she saw Chief Conrad framed in the doorway.

"Don't get up," he said, his voice raised over the sound of one shift departing and the other settling in for the evening. "Lieutenant, mind if I kick you out of here a few minutes early?"

Monaghan left his chair.

"I won't mind," he said, "but, if I get home too early, I might catch my wife with the mailman. She will definitely have something to say about that."

He smiled at his own wit as he slipped past the chief and out the door, which Conrad closed behind him. Anita took the opportunity to give him a good look-over.

_Man looks tired and rumpled—like he's been up since yesterday… the way he's shifting his weight on his feet makes him look nervous… and I'm just not comfortable staying seated in front of a chief…._

"Sir," she said as she rose to her feet, "would you like to sit down?"

He replied with a sharp shake of his head.

"Thanks, but no," he told her, "although I appreciate the offer. Now, first of all, congratulations, Captain Van Buren. It gives me great pleasure to formally inform you of your promotion and your new assignment."

His choice of words worried Anita.

_Formally inform? This isn't SOP…._

"Second," Conrad continued. "Commissioner Richardson had planned to contact you this morning about your promotion and the reasons behind it. Unfortunately, the attempted bombing of Manhattan SVU, and the matters of Bureau Chief Beale and First Deputy Commissioner Balzano derailed those plans."

Anita raised her hand and rested it on the top of the desk, bracing herself for whatever might be coming.

_Okay, he said I'm promoted and I got SVU, but something's not right here… _

Conrad straightened and, as he did so, his expression turned serious.

"In the opinion of many, your promotion to captain is coming nine years later than it should have. We both know the reason you were passed over in 1998 and the politics behind it."

Anita felt her blood start to pound in her veins.

_Damn right we know… I had the exam grade and the seniority… Sandra Berger had the skin color and a tie by marriage to Chief of Personnel Anthony Balzano… him and his cronies saw to it I lost the promotion… and I lost my lawsuit… and they made sure my unit always got the short end of everything—just to punish me…._

She stared at the chief, hoping the heat of her glare conveyed the pain she still felt over the wrong.

_You planning to mealy-mouth some justification for what was done to me? _

To her surprise, Conrad did not hand her some bull about her humiliation being for the good of the department.

"I can't go back," he said, "and right that wrong, and we both know the department never apologizes, but I can tell you that the decision to promote Berger stuck in more than a few craws. Unfortunately, none of us had the juice to do anything about it—at least, not until now."

Conrad paused to sigh.

"Anita," he said, "for what it's worth, I'm personally sorry for the way your career stalled out, and I'm personally ashamed of the reason it stalled. If it's any consolation, I just came from witnessing the not-so-willing resignation of Borough Commander James Deitz. I know you weren't a fan of his."

Van Buren stiffened at the sound of Deitz' name.

_A fan of his? Damn right I wasn't—that man walled off my people from the help and the equipment they needed… he told me the only way I could make things right was to quit… but I don't quit…._

"You fired Deitz?" she asked.

Conrad shook his head.

"No, not me. Chief Fulton did the honors. I merely went along to watch."

A quick smile lit the chief's face as though he was savoring the memory then he turned serious again.

"Now, do you have any questions about what I just told you?"

Anita considered his offer…

_I'm dying to know if Balzano killed himself because he was about to be fired, but I don't think that question is appropriate right now…._

… then she shook her head.

"Okay," the chief continued, "then I'll be going. I need to do a few more of these before the day is through. Captain, again, my congratulations."

Anita accepted them with a smile then, as soon as the chief was gone, she dropped into the side chair, closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.

_Damn… I got a black Chief of Department firing the white man who wanted me to give up and quit… the white man who used his authority as Chief of Personnel to shove me aside is missing, presumed dead… and the Chief of Detectives said he regrets me making captain took so long… feels like I should bust out singing "We Did Overcome" or something…._

A rap on the door interrupted Anita's thoughts. She opened her eyes to see Ed Green peering down at her.

_He looks like he's wondering if he should call me a bus… I can't look that bad, can I?_

"You okay?" he asked. "The chief didn't take back your promotion, did he?"

"No, Ed," she assured him. "It was nothing like that."

"Then what was it?"

"It was," she replied, "as close to a departmental apology for what was done to me as I I'm going to get.."

Green's eyes widened.

"Damn. You think it's enough?"

_Not by a damn sight, it ain't… but... when I add it to my captain's bar and SVU as my next command, then… maybe…._

Anita held her head high as she answered her detective's question.

"It will do. Now, since Cassady's off getting some much needed education, let's see who I can pair you up with this week…."

Officer of the Executive Assistant District Attorney  
One Hogan Place  
16 August 4:07 p.m.

By the time four o'clock rolled around, Alex Borgia felt secure enough to begin to relax.

_No one has said anything last night… Jack hasn't asked me into his office… no phone calls from Detective Otten saying she gave me up to keep her job… and ,when I kept my promise to Casey and brought her concerns to Arthur, he smiled and said I was very conscientious… from him, that's a compliment…_.

So, when Alex went to the EADA's office to give him the list of upcoming arraignments, McCoy's suggestion that she take a seat did not immediately alarm her. It wasn't until he walked around his desk and also took his seat that she began to sweat.

_Jack doesn't do formal… not unless he has to… and tomorrow's arraignments certainly don't need formality…._

Alex tried to look comfortable and at ease, but Jack did not return her smile.

"Alex," he said, "we need to talk about something that happened last night."

Her mouth went so dry, she had to swallow before asking what he meant. Jack proceeded to tell her about the meeting with the police commissioner the night before and how it had been interrupted by a phone call from Randolph Dworkin. As he described how Fontana's attorney appeared to know all about Beale's blackmail of the first deputy commissioner, Alex struggled to remain calm.

_But not too calm… an innocent person would be a little worried… wondering if, by some weird fluke, they might have said or done something that made them look guilty… I have to look like that… worried, but not too worried…._

"I talked to the chief of detectives this morning," he told her. "Chief Conrad assures me that neither Detectives Stabler nor Benson leaked that information. I also talked to our people, Hector and Ted, and neither of them are the source, either."

Alex leaned back a bit in her chair and frowned just a little.

_It's okay to looked worried now… anyone would with Jack circling them like this… I know he didn't ask Dworkin or Fontana… attorney-client privilege keeps all their conversations private…._

Across the desk from Alex, McCoy drew himself upright and pinned his gaze on her.

_Don't say Otten's name… don't… I can't lie about her without you catching me…._

"So, Alex," he said, his voice catching on her name, "I have to ask: have you talked to Dworkin about anything pertaining to Fontana, Beale, or Balzano?"

She shook her head.

_That I can answer honestly…._

"No, Jack. I haven't spoken to Randy since I last turned him down for a date."

McCoy's eyebrows shot up. Alex decided to treat the move as a question..

"Last week," she told him, "Thursday, I think. I ran into him at the courthouse, and he asked me out for sushi."

Jack looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Didn't you turn him down for sushi once already?"

"Yeah, after the Mitchell Lowell arraignment."

Jack's lip curled into a sneer.

"I remember that one," he said, "Lowell, Fontana, and what Randy referred to as a 'good old-fashioned swirlie.' So, he keeps asking you out?"

"Yes, and always for sushi, which I don't like very much."

Jack shook his head as though amazed by Dworkin's dimness. Alex stifled a smile.

_Actually, his persistence is kind of charming… maybe, if he'd suggest something else to eat…._

Her boss cut into Alex's thoughts.

"Can I assume you didn't leak anything to Dworkin while turning him down?"

"Jack…."

The scorn in her voice was not faked.

_You know I wouldn't pass information to the defense… at least, not about a case… this isn't a case... it's a police matter… mostly…._

Her reply seemed to satisfy McCoy but, to her dismay, it did not end the questioning because Jack then asked if she had talked to Fontana.

She shook her head.

"I haven't talked to him since his firing."

"I know," he next said, "that you've talked to Van Buren and Green about Beale; that's what brought this entire mess to our attention."

Jack rested his arms on his desk and leaned toward Alex.

"Did you tell either of them about his blackmailing Balzano?"

"No, I didn't," she assured him. "I've kept all our discussions to arrests and cases and other pertinent matters."

Jack nodded at her answer then he turned his head to stare at his coat rack. The sour frown on his face warned that he was unsure of his next move.

_Just end it here, Jack… don't ask any more questions… Fontana will work things out with the department and it won't matter how he and Dworkin found out… no harm, no foul… I won't mind if you drop this… I won't mind at all…._

Alex folded her hands in her lap as she waited for McCoy's next move.

_Praying for help to hide a wrong is a sin… but I don't think I did anything wrong… not really…._

Finally, Jack turned his gaze back to her face. The sigh he gave before he spoke sounded to Alex like her luck running out.

_Oh, crap… he's going to ask…._

"Alex," he said, his voice slow and thick, "did you tell anyone else about Beale blackmailing Balzano?"

Alex raised her chin and met his gaze…

_Jack wants to believe me… all I have to say is 'No….'_

… but, when she opened her mouth to reply, the word would not leave her tongue and her breath caught in her throat, leaving Alex with no option but to nod her head. Jack gaped at her, too stunned to react to her admission. Seconds passed while they stared at each other. Finally, Jack clamped his jaw together then swallowed hard.

Alex…."

The shock in his voice sickened her.

"Who did you tell?"

Alex wet her lips and said, "Fontana's fiancée, Detective Otten."

Jack slumped back against his chair. His mouth worked as though it were searching for something to say.

_I have to explain… it won't fix anything, but I have to tell him why…._

"She rode with Captain Cragen to the hospital last night so she was in the waiting room when I got there."

Alex leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands open before her.

"Jack, she was so sick with worry that I just had to say something—especially after I'd heard you and Arthur say you were okay with the commissioner sweeping everything under the rug."

Her boss' frown deepened. Alex paused to lick her lips again.

"But I'm not okay with it. Fontana deserves to know the real reason he was fired, and I can't face Ed and the rest of them knowing I was complicit in a cover-up. I'm sorry, Jack. I really am, but I had to do it."

Her hands drooped as she realized how lame her justification sounded when spoken aloud.

_But that doesn't matter… I did it, and I was right—at least, I think I was right…._

Across the desk, Jack was shaking his head as though denying what she had told him.

"Alex," he said, his voice rising with the flush of anger in his face, "you assumed there would be a cover-up, but Arthur and Richardson aren't hiding any of this. Besides, it wasn't your decision to make."

Her voice shook as she replied.

"I know, Jack. I know."

"You also know what happens now, don't you?"

Her stomach lurched and her hands went cold, but neither reaction stopped her from nodding her head in response.

_Yeah, I'm about to be fired… there's no way you'll let me stay—not after this…._

To her surprise, Jack did not say the words. Instead, he reached for his desk phone then called an inter-office number.

_He called Arthur to tell him it was me… then he called Security and asked them to send someone to escort me from the building… he didn't look at me during either call…._

When he finished the second call, McCoy fixed his attention at a point somewhere over Alex's head in a blunt refusal to met her gaze.

"Security will walk you out," he told her. "They'll help you pack your things. I can't. I won't."

Alex felt her chin began to quiver. She quickly clamped her jaws together.

_Right, Jack… those who step out of line must be punished—except when it's you… but I'm not going to fall apart… not here, at least... not where you can see me…._

"It's okay," she said between clenched teeth. "I'll be fine."

A rap on the door behind her signaled the arrival of the security guard. Alex used the arms of her chair to push herself to her feet. She glanced at Jack, but he switched his focus back to his coat rack.

_I need to say something… I can't just walk out of here without saying something…._

"Jack," she said, "I have to say 'Thank you.' You taught me a lot and—"

He waved away her gratitude.

"I didn't teach you this."

With that said, McCoy spun his chair until she could see only the back of his head. The rejection hit like a fist in her stomach. Alex gulped hard then turned and ran from the office, forcing the guard to rush after her.


	38. So Good to Me: Part Two

Author's Notes:

DCLM: the NYPD's Deputy Commissioner for Legal Matters. For this story, he is Ed Wilson

Strict Liability: "In law, a standard for liability which may exist in either a criminal or civil context. A rule specifying strict liability makes a person legally responsible for the damage and loss caused by his or her acts and omissions regardless of culpability (including fault in criminal law terms, typically the presence of _mens rea_)." Dworkin is reminding Fontana that NYC carries insurance that covers acts such as Balzano's firing of Fontana and its aftermath. [definition from Wikipedia]

Torts: "…in common law jurisdictions, a tort is a wrong that involves a breach of a civil duty owed to someone else…. A person who suffers a tortious injury is entitled to receive "damages", usually monetary compensation, from the person or people responsible—or liable—for those injuries." [definition from Wikipedia]

_balagan_: mess, chaos, fiasco (Yiddish/Hebrew loan word probably from Turkish via Russian)

CV: _curriculum vitae,_ the name for a ___résumé_ if one is an academic, or a medical or legal professional

Fresh Kills: a closed landfill on Staten Island that was used as a sorting ground for rubble from the World Trade Center towers. Detectives and forensic specialists worked to recover human remains from the two million tons of material brought there.

FINEST: the NYPD's internal e-mail system

Gravitas: (pronounced "grah-WE-tahs" if you know Classical Latin) is a quality of substance or depth of personality; specifically: dignity, seriousness, and duty

To holler 'calf rope': To give up, surrender (Middle Southern and Gulf states) used by the author William Faulkner and in the movie "Paper Moon"

S&W Model 19: according to the Internet Movie Firearms Database () Fontana carries this model although, in Real Life, it never was never approved for official use by the NYPD.

Events in this story move faster than they would in Real Life. Procedures and rulings in this story are designed to reflect the needs of the story, not the realities of the NYPD or the DA's office. Characters curse in this chapter.

Office of Randolph J. Dworkin, Esq.

16 August (Monday) 3:35 p.m.

Randy Dworkin's office was furnished with utilitarian furniture in steel and black with artwork chosen by Jodi, his paralegal, a middle-aged women who today was clad in jeans and a black Woodstock birdie t-shirt.

_No polished oak and dress codes for me… my fellow attorneys are too caught up in appearances… we should be judged on our education, our trial experience, and our win/loss ratios, not our stodgy taste in furniture and art.…_

As soon as he ended his call from DCLM Edward Wilson, Dworkin called Fontana.

"Your time is up," he told his client, "I need to know what you want, both the maximum and the minimum, because I'm meeting with Branch and Wilson at four-fifteen. So, assuming the minimum is you getting your job back, how does this sound for a maximum: we get the Commissioner to parade through Times Square wearing a dunce hat and a sandwich board reading '"Fontana's the Man'?"

A low growl came through his phone's speaker.

"_Cut the clowning_," Fontana replied. "_Making a fool out of the commissioner won't fix anything._"

"You're right," Dworkin told him, "but I'm working in a vacuum here. You keep telling me all you want is your job back, but I can't go into a negotiation with only one bargaining chip. I need things we can give up and things we can stand firm on, but it's up to you to decide which is which—not me."

The silence that followed went on for so long, Dworkin wondered if his client had put his phone down and walked away.

_My other clients often have a similar problem—plea bargains are difficult for them because then they have to admit their own guilt… if a jury or a judge tells them "You're guilty," they can still deny it's true… and most of them do keep denying it, which makes for a lot of repeat business… now, Fontana's a very proud man… if he believes some of what happened to him is his fault, then he won't want to admit it… I know he no longer wants to blame Balzano—he made that abundantly clear earlier today…._

Dworkin chose his next words very carefully.

"Fontana, there's no way anyone can undo what's been done to you. I can't ask for Wilson and Branch to go back in time and prevent your injuries."

A loud _harrumph_ proved his client was still on the line.

"_If they had a time machine,"_ Fontana replied, _"better they go back and keep Beale from being born. That would solve everything."_

Dworkin let out a sympathetic sigh.

_Would that they could…._

Fontana continued, _"But, since they can't, here's what I want out of them."_

Dworkin wrote down the items as Fontana listed them, numbering them as he went. When he had written '#5', but nothing more came from his client, Dworkin spoke up.

"Is that it?"

"_Yeah, that'll do."_

Dworkin set his pen down and stared at the very short list.

"What about payment of your hospital bills?"

"_Not interested."_

"And that pricy security detail that's protecting you?"

"_They're my concern, not the department's."_

Dworkin made a mental note.

_If he can swallow bills like those, I should being charging him a heck of a lot more…._

He then probed to see if his client had overlooked the obvious.

"How about a bump in pay grade?" he asked. "Something for pain and suffering? A replacement for that chick magnet you were driving?"

"_Don't need it; don't want it, and I was going to trade my Benz for something that can handle child seats so I don't need another one."_

"You do know the city is insured against strict liability torts, which is exactly what Balzano put them at risk of when Beale blackmailed him. They'll happily pay out to avoid a lawsuit"

"_Yeah, I know it, but I'm still not interested. What I told you is all I want."_

Dworkin shook his head at Fontana's stubbornness.

"But we have both the NYPD and the DA by the short hairs," he reminded his client. "You can ask for damn near anything, and they'll have polish up the gold platter so they can serve it to you."

There was another long pause.

"_In that case,"_ Fontana finally said, "_make sure that platter has my service revolver on it. Don't let them tell you they lost it."_

Fontana then recited the revolver's model and serial number, which Dworkin noted as item #5.

"_Oh, and if you can't get the first thing on the list, walk out. Without that one, there's no deal."_

Dworkin eyed the first item, the only one that did not directly pertain to his client.

"Fontana," he said, "your altruism warms my heart—and I mean it."

A low growl from his client told Dworkin how little Fontana cared.

"_Just call me when it's over."_

An abrupt _click_ ended the call. Dworkin replaced the phone's receiver on its cradle then he frowned at the short list of items.

_Sorry, Fontana, but if I ask only for what you want—let alone settle for what you want, then no prosecutor in the state will ever take me seriously again… despite my willingness to have fun in the courtroom, I can't let people think I'm nothing but a clown…._

Dworkin took the list from his legal pad then used the next blank page to make up a new list.

_I don't care what Fontana's reasons are—someone should have stopped Andrew Beale before this _balagan_ started … that means the DA and the NYPD need to pay for their failures… sure, winning a big settlement will look great on my CV, but that's beside the point… truth is, Fontana deserves it… not that I'll ever say that anywhere he might hear it—no siree, not ever…._

SVU Squadroom

16 August (Monday) 3:39 p.m.

When SVU's two shift leads got together to discuss matters, they usually met at one of their desks or in the upstairs lounge. Today, Howie Brewster had beckoned Olivia into the interview room by the captain's office. He left the door open as they took seats by the battered wooden table. Olivia noted that Howie's jaw was set and his face under his red hair looked paler than usual.

"Yesterday afternoon," he said with a nod toward the outer window, "I was standing outside wondering if I'd be sorting debris like I did at Fresh Kills, looking for enough of Fin to bury."

Olivia leaned back from Brewster's bluntness.

"Howie," she said, "I didn't know—"

Brewster cut into her sentence, changing the subject.

"I went from here to Bellevue, where some sergeant from Special Frauds was standing watch over John like she was his wife. Seems we damn near lost him, too. Normally, two near-misses would be more than enough for one day, but then, after I've finally gotten home where I'm thinking about bed, I get a call from Chief Conrad."

He turned away to stare at the one-way glass between them and Cragen's office.

"He tells me Cragen's been shot by Bureau Chief Beale. That's how I find out Beale was stalking our captain right under all our noses, and how we were too stupid to see it."

Brewster turned to glare at Olivia.

"Why the hell didn't Don say something? Why the hell didn't you say something?"

She opened her mouth, but Howie spoke over her reply.

"Why wasn't someone watching Don's back, Liv? Who the hell forced him to go solo? Was it Branch? Richardson? Balzano?"

"It wasn't like that—"

Howie waved off her words.

"I know; I know. Some asshole decided secrecy was the best way to handle it—so what if it left Don out in the cold by himself? Call it just another standard NYPD clusterfuck. Happens every day. We should be used to it by now."

Olivia winced at the sarcasm in Howie's voice.

_But that's exactly what it was… a string of reasonable decisions that went horribly wrong…._

Brewster dropped his hands to his side then he scowled at Benson.

"Next time I tell you to keep your shit on your own shift, don't listen to me. Bring us in and let us help. Don't make me get news like this over the phone, okay?"

Olivia gaped at Brewster for a moment then she drew in a deep breath and put on her sweetest smile.

"Sure thing, Howie," she told him. "Next time the DA orders me to keep things confidential, I'll call you. I know Branch won't mind."

Howie's rude snort was followed by a sheepish grin of his own.

"Don't mind me. I'm just blowing off steam. I know, no matter how hard we try, sometimes it still turns to shit."

Olivia nodded at the truth of his words.

_This was definitely one of those times…._

"Now," Howie said, '"the Commissioner's office called. They're sending someone to the shift meeting to bring us up-to-date."

Olivia stifled a frown at the news.

_I wonder what version of the truth we'll be fed… better not say that out loud… not until I know how this is being played…._

"Well," she replied, "I've been completely out of the loop. After I saw Don this morning, I went home and crashed."

"Fin and Elliot are at home," Howie told her. "I've talked to both of them and Munch. He's still at Bellevue, but he should be released tomorrow morning. Elliot told me his shooting review hasn't been scheduled yet. His rep is pushing for a date and time, but so far, nothing."

Olivia leaned back in her chair and sighed.

_That makes it Donna, Couch, Judith, and me this shift with Chester on desk duty… we'll be running on caffeine and not much else, but there's nothing I can do about that …._

When she turned her attention back to Howie, he said, "Dan and Amanda volunteered to stay on if you want them, although I don't know who'll sign for their overtime."

The offer put a weary smile on Olivia's face.

"Well, we certainly could use the help. Maybe we can finesse the OT until the new captain gets here—it's Van Buren, right?"

Howie's mouth twisted as though he did not trust the presumed flexibility of their new CO.

"We can hope," he told Benson. "Now, here's what we're working…."

Four o'clock found SVU's detectives gathered in a circle around Detective Sergeant Michelle Young, the "someone from the commissioner's office." As she brought them up to date, Olivia mentally weighed the official version of the facts against the truth.

_She started with a statement about Don's condition—'resting comfortably' and 'should be released from the hospital by the end of the week'… that made everyone perk up a little… Young then said Don was the one who first suspected Beale of being a predator—no mention about him being Beale's intended victim… Don took his suspicions to the DA, who tied them to Marc Newman's suicide then asked Don to set himself up as Beale's prey in order to catch the bureau chief… the way Young tells it, the DA brought Elliot and me in to check on an unrelated suspicion about Beale being tied to Fontana's firing… not that I mind her omitting how Elliot and I failed to find anything to support Don's suspicions… I'm going to kick myself for that for a long, long time…._

The rest of Sgt. Young's explanation went as Olivia thought it might go.

_While checking out the Beale-Fontana link, Fontana provided proof that Beale was into homosexual bondage—everyone is sneaking looks at Judith… she just went red… funny how she can control her expression but not her blushing… Young then said further investigation by Elliot and me uncovered evidence of previous rapes committed by Beale, which got us a warrant for Beale's arrest, which put us at Don's home just as Don was shooting it out with Beale… I'm damn glad Young did not describe that scene… instead, she expressed gratitude that everything came together in time… a sentiment I completely agree with…._

The assembled detectives took a few moments to digest the information.

_Young didn't say a word about Balzano… maybe the brass hopes we'll forget about him…._

The quiet was broken by a question from Donna Loudoun.

"Sergeant, ma'am—is the First Dep's disappearance also tied to Bureau Chief Beale?"

Olivia hid a smile at her friend's boldness.

_Leave it to Donna to blurt out what everyone else is wondering… Young told her she can't comment at this time, and that further updates will be released via FINEST… her answer shut down further curiosity…._

Olivia tuned out the praise for the unit that Sgt. Young next conveyed.

_I know we deserve it—hell, the entire department didn't handle the amount of crap that landed on us yesterday… but I'm too damn tired to care about praise… all I want is for us to get through this shift safely …._

When the sergeant finished speaking, Howie stepped up to detail the current cases. While he did so, Young beckoned Olivia to the back of the squadroom.

"You just heard the official take on the Beale matter," Young told her. "I trust you'll stick to the script if anyone asks."

"Yes, ma'am," Olivia replied.

_Hell, it beats a whitewash of Beale with Don as the scapegoat…._

"Inspector Renault," the sergeant continued, "will handle any required authorizations for your unit until Captain Van Buren takes command."

Olivia smiled at the news.

_I'll get Dan and Amanda's OT slips to him pronto…._

"Also, and for your ears only, Detective Stabler will be back tomorrow. His shooting of Eshan will be ruled 'justified.' "

Olivia's smile widened.

"Now, I need to talk to the detectives from your shift who were at Kings County last night with Captain Cragen," the sergeant next said. "Could you point them out to me?"

Olivia's smile vanished.

_You better not take anyone away from me… I need every warm body I've got…._

"Let's see," she replied, "Detective Otten rode with Captain Cragen—she's the one in the gray pants suit with the blue blouse. Detective Sofarelli arrived later—light blue shirt and navy tie. Detectives Loudoun and Lake were handling things here and at Bellevue."

Sergeant Young nodded her thanks then she took a step toward the detectives gathered around Howie. Olivia sidestepped to stay even with her.

"May I ask why you need them?" she asked.

Young ignored the question and kept moving. While Olivia fumed, the sergeant walked up behind Couch and whispered something to him. He then followed her into the interview room.

_With the door shut behind them… wish I could read lips… whatever it is, Couch is shaking his head…._

After barely a minute, Couch left the interview. He beckoned to Judith, who got up from her desk and entered the interview room, closing the door behind her. Olivia watched through the window as the same scene repeated itself.

_Except for Judith pissing off Young… she snapped something back at Judith then left in a hurry… she had her cell phone to her ear by the time she hit the hallway… Judith grabbed her phone, too… everyone is staring after the sergeant, but Couch is focused on Judith… I have to find out what the hell is going on…._

Olivia went to the interview room. Despite her hurrying, all Olivia heard was the end of Judith's conversation.

"_Call me back when you get this'… sounds like she left someone a message…._

Benson leaned against the door frame…

_I could go to sleep right here…._

…then she asked the older woman if anything was wrong.

"Not yet," Judith replied. "It depends on whether Randolph Dworkin is as good as he says he is, and if he is fast enough to beat IAB."

The acronym set Olivia back on her feet.

"IAB?" she repeated. "What the hell for?"

Judith let out a long sigh, then she said, "Because the commissioner and the DA are trying to find out who told Joe's attorney about Balzano and Beale."

"I know," Olivia replied. "Conrad asked me about that this morning. Are you part of that or are they just fishing?"

Judith's expression went blank as she recited, "On the advice of my attorney…."

_Oh, shit…._

Before Olivia could express her dismay, Judith added, "Randolph Dworkin, whom I retained last week right after the First Dep threatened me."

Olivia took a moment to puzzle over Judith's statement.

"Balzano was coming after you?"

"Yes," Judith said with a shrug, "but that's moot now. The immediate threat is Sgt. Young. When I told her I wouldn't answer any questions without my rep and my attorney, she said I should expect a visit from the rats forthwith."

Judith ended that sentence with a weak smile.

"I'm sorry about this, Liv. The last thing you need is another detective with problems."

Olivia glanced back at the squadroom, where Howie's shift was leaving for home while her people, plus Amanda and Dan, were settling in for the evening shift.

_Damn right it's the last thing I need… but, if you found out about Beale's blackmail and passed the info to Joe, I can't blame you… but the brass won't see it my way… fuck-ups like this one always need a fall guy and it looks like you just nominated yourself for the job…. _

She turned back to face Judith.

_If the rat squad wants you, they're going to have to work for it…._

"I'm putting you with Couch tonight," she told the older woman. "The two of you will handle the follow-ups for Howie's shift. Don't check in; keep moving, and you and I never discussed any of this, okay?"

Judith stayed just long enough to grin at Benson before she rushed from the room. Olivia watched as she tapped Couch on the shoulder and spoke briefly to him. Couch then snatched his jacket and the stack of case notes that Howie had left by the copier. Before Olivia made it back to her desk, the two detectives were out of sight.

Conference Room

Office of the Manhattan District Attorney

16 August 4:22 p.m.

Arthur Branch was well aware of the impression conveyed by both the furnishings and the prestige of the office of the District Attorney of the County of New York.

_I sit in my chair like a jewel sits in a very magnificent setting... between that and my own authority and gravitas, I usually manage to awe—if not intimidate—anyone who might want to make me holler 'calf rope'…._

Unfortunately, Branch was not in his office. Instead, he was seated on one side of a city-issued conference table in a room down the hall from his office. At his side was the man who shared official responsibility for the actions of Bureau Chief Andrew Beale: Ed Wilson, the police department's Deputy Commissioner for Legal Matters, a man who looked much the worse for wear.

_Can't say I blame him… I'm not feeling too perky myself right now…._

Across the table from the two men sat one of the many banes of Jack McCoy's existence. Judging from the sigh he emitted when he took his seat, Randolph Dworkin also felt a tad tired.

"This has really been something," Dworkin told the two men. "Who knew, when I took Detective Fontana as my client, that it would come down to the three of us gathered together to discuss the niceties of suicide, blackmail, and attempted murder?"

Wilson frowned at Dworkin. Branch hid a smile.

_Ed's a good guy, but he doesn't relish a good fight… now, me—I like to wrassle with a worthy opponent and Dworkin is no dummy, even if his clown act knots Jack's knickers whenever they meet up…._

Branch's cell phone chimed. He took it from his pocket and glanced at its screen.

"My apologies, gentlemen," he announced as he left his seat and walked to the far end of the conference room.

_It's just as I feared… Alexandra is the source of the leak about the blackmail… Jack says she did it out of pity for Fontana and his fiancée's worrying over him… a fine sentiment, but her loyalties should have been to this office and her boss… I told Jack I'd back him on this and I will… losing Miss Borgia is a damn shame, but it can't be helped…._

Branch beckoned to Ed Wilson to join him. When he did, Arthur gave him the news.

_Wilson told me he already has his bird dogs sniffing around Detective Otten… I said I didn't think Otten's passing on the info she got from Borgia was a firing offense… judging from Ed's scowl, he doesn't agree with me… be that as it may—it's his decision, not mine… I've already sacrificed one good person on the altar of departmental justice today…._

The two men returned to their seats. Branch ignored Dworkin's bright-eyed curiosity.

_Far as I'm concerned, there's no need to tell Dworkin about Borgia… I'm sure he already knows she was the source of his info about Beale…._

As soon as Wilson and Branch were seated, Dworkin grinned at them.

"So, how do you want to begin this?' he asked. "Shall we haggle—I ask for the moon and you offer me a speck of moon dust—or shall we address this as intelligent men who can and do acknowledge the heinous wrongs done against my client by the First Deputy Commissioner?"

Wilson grunted his displeasure.

"Anthony Balzano was coerced into terminating your client."

"That may well be," Dworkin replied, "and, perhaps, we will get around to stipulating the truth of your contention but, whatever the intent, the consequences of said action left my client grievously injured and open to the nonexistent mercies of several would-be murderers—not to mention the vast sums of his own money he is spending on his medical and security expenses."

Branch leaned back in his chair. He took care to keep his expression neutral even though Dworkin's ability to say all those words without pausing to breathe had impressed him.

_This young man is clever, clever and quick… he knows we're over a barrel… what he doesn't know is that the mayor and the insurance company have already approved a payout to cover Fontana's expenses—one that includes an additional large sum if he'll forgo any lawsuits against my office, the police, and the city… the mayor wants this to go away… Tim and I agree that nothing is gained by drawing it out… I could step in and make the offer right now, but where would be the fun in that?_

He glanced at Wilson, noting how frustrated the DCLM appeared to be.

_Ed's on board with this, but it goes against his nature to give in without a fight… he'll argue so he doesn't seem weak… I'll argue because I want to see what tricks Dworkin has up his sleeve…._

Wilson opened a leather portfolio then picked up his pen, a sign that he was ready for action. Before he could speak, Dworkin held up his hand.

"Before we get down to serious business," he said, "there is one item that my client absolutely insisted must be agreed upon before we begin. In fact, Fontana considers this so important that he has instructed me to end negotiations and walk out if you do not agree to it."

Branch sent a sideways glance in Wilson's direction. Wilson raised one eyebrow and frowned in reply.

_Okay, I'll bite…._

Branch folded his hands before him and peered at Dworkin.

"And this item is—?"

"Full and complete immunity from all internal and external charges and disciplinary actions resulting in any way from the actions of Bureau Chief Andrew Beale and First Deputy Commissioner Anthony Balzano for New York City Police Detectives Edward Green, Nina Cassady, and Judith Otten."

Dworkin slid a sheet of paper from his own leather portfolio then he placed it on the table facing Wilson and Branch.

"Just so you know to which three detectives I refer, I have their shield numbers and tax registry numbers here."

Branch eyed the paper with suspicion.

_I know about Otten, but what did Green and his partner do to warrant immunity?_

Wilson inclined his head toward the wall behind him, a sign that he wanted to discuss things with the DA. Branch slid his chair back from the table and swung around until his back faced Dworkin, a motion Wilson copied.

"What's this about immunity?" Branch asked, "and what do Green and Cassady have to do with Borgia?"

"Nothing," Wilson replied. "I think this stems from an unauthorized sting operation the three detectives staged last week. Since it led to the arrests of several high-level drug dealers in the Bronx, these three received only verbal reprimands. Other than that, Green and Cassady are in the clear."

Branch took a moment to ponder the situation.

_So Dworkin is using Green and Cassady as a screen to cover a request for Otten to be cleared of receiving leaked information… I like it… but there's something missing…._

"Why isn't Fontana," he asked, "seeking for immunity for himself? After all, he's the one with a folder filled with unresolved complaints?"

"Maybe that comes later in the negotiation," Wilson said with a shrug.

Branch frowned at his friend.

"C'mon, Ed. If you were in Dworkin's place, wouldn't you make immunity for your client you first order of business?"

"Damn right I would. Think this is a trap?"

Branch glanced over his shoulder at Dworkin, who caught his gaze then made an ostentatious show of checking his watch.

"Let's keep our eyes open for trip wires," he told Wilson. "In the meantime, can you live with Otten getting a pass on helping out her fiancé with leaked information?"

Wilson pursed his lips as though disgusted by the question.

"The instructions I have are to close this matter in an equitable and swift manner," he replied. "Are you happy with having only your office take the heat for this leak?"

Branch snorted at the question.

"I wouldn't say 'happy,'" he replied, "but it's better than no deal."

Wilson then moved his chair back to the conference table. Branch followed as the DCLM let out a small sigh before addressing Dworkin.

"Detectives Green, Cassady, and Otten have their immunity. I trust they have done nothing that would damage the reputation of the department."

Dworkin's grin did not ease Wilson's concern.

"I'm certain you have nothing to worry about," he replied. "Now, let's move to the next item on my list."

Hospital Room of Donald Cragen  
Kings County Hospital, Brooklyn, NY  
16 August 4:51 p.m.

Don Cragen had spent the day dozing.

_There weren't very many visitors—Lynnie said she told everyone to give me a day or two to recover before they came by… Lee Kidman ignored her…he said he was here last night along with Phil Cerretta—he said, the next time the three of us get together, we should meet somewhere besides a hospital… that's when I found out how much laughing hurts… _ _Walter Luntz from the endowment association also came by to see if I needed any legal help… I don't think so—at least, I hope not… and my neighbor Wally was here while I was asleep… he asked Lynnie how I was then he told her how all the techs and traffic kept him awake last night… I'll have to smooth things over with him and Beverly…._

His sleep between visitors was not as restful as Don might have liked.

_Every time I nodded off, I saw Andrew pulling his Kel-Tec from his pocket… I was back fighting for my life in my own kitchen…._

When he woke up from the last dreamed go-around with Beale, Don found Tullia sitting in his sister's place by his bed.

_Dressed in a black pants suit with no jewelry, only her silver crucifix… no make-up, either… her nose is red and her eyes are all puffy and closed… maybe she's praying… for me? If I took a turn for the worse, wouldn't someone wake me up to tell me?_

"Tullia," he asked, "what's wrong?"

Sixty seconds later, Don was trying to make sense of her news.

_They pulled her brother's body from the water off Red Hook… she says he killed himself because Andrew blackmailed him into firing some detective, and into ordering the Six-Four to ignore requests to check on me…._

"They found a letter Tony wrote," Tullia continued. "It said he was sorry for hurting Sylvia and for not protecting Paulie, and for ruining that detective's life and the department's reputation, but there's nothing about him being sorry for what he did to you. I know Tony didn't like you, but it's like he thought you deserved to be—to be…"

Don saw Tullia retch then swallow hard.

"It's okay," he assured her. "You don't have to say it."

Tullia's head bobbed in reply then she said, "Everyone is crying about how Tony was forced to do these things, and how horrible it must have been for him, but nobody's asking how come Tony didn't have Beale arrested? My brother was the second-in-command of the whole damn police force—how could anyone get away with blackmailing him? Why someone see what Tony was doing and stop him before…."

Tullia gulped once then she covered her face with her hands and began to shake. Don stretched his hand to her, but his fingers barely brushed the top of her head..

_I don't know why… other than no one would think to question the first deputy commissioner… and Beale was so damn good, no one suspected him at all… the way Liv explained it this morning, everyone had a piece of the puzzle, but none of us knew the pieces fit together… I still don't know who finally figured it out and how…._

"It's all right," he said, hoping to soothe the sobbing woman. "It's okay."

Tullia jerked her head up and stared at him with red-rimmed eyes.

"You're okay," she said, "but Tony—my brother. He's not okay. He's—"

Don saw her mouth form a 'd' but the rest of the word failed to come out. Instead, Tullia scooted her chair forward to the bedside so she could press her face against his shoulder while she sobbed. Don, mindful of the tubes and sensors, managed to wrap her in an awkward hug.

_Go ahead and cry… he's your brother and he deserves your tears… but don't ask me to mourn… not until someone answers all my questions… not until I'm convinced we aren't better off without him…. _


	39. So Good to Me: Part Three

Author's Notes:

'Boots to the head': from The Frantics' comedy routine "Last Will and Temperament" often played by Dr. Demento on his radio show

Soap poisoning: from the movie "A Christmas Story"

DCPI: the NYPD's Deputy Commissioner for Public Information (both the position and the office)

The Tombs: formally, the Manhattan Detention Center, where those who are being arraigned or standing trial in the nearby Criminal Court are housed.

Baxter Pub: A Real Life place in 2007, but no longer in existence. I'm adapting it to fit my story.

Supernumerary: a position that exceeds or is beyond the regular or prescribed number; extra

BlackBerry® is a registered trade mark

Terence, Ed, Steve, and Roland: other original characters in this series. Ed Wilson, Deputy Commissioner for Legal Matters, Terence Fulton, Chief of Department, Steve Marczek, Chief of Internal Affairs, and Roland Crutchfield, Deputy Commissioner for Public Information

Sylvia and Paul: Tony Balzano's widow and son

Civilian Complaint Review Board: the actual board that handles complaints against police officers in NYC. It is a completely civilian review board (hence its name) that, as one of its options, can turn a complaint over to Internal Affairs for further investigation. I didn't dwell on it because detailing the actual Real Life complaint procedures would have added several thousand not-very-interesting words to this story.

Events in this story move faster than they would in Real Life. Procedures in this story are designed to reflect the needs of the story, not the realities of the NYPD or the DA's office. Characters curse in this chapter.

Sixteenth Precinct Motor Pool  
16 August (Monday) 4:33 p.m.

Otten and Sofarelli took the stairs to avoid any rats who might be waiting for them in the precinct's lobby. Judith also accepted the first Taurus offered by the motor pool sergeant, skipping her usual questions about functioning A/C and other important parts. The hurry and precautions, however, did not help.

_Two IAB agents were waiting for us in the lot… when they told Judith to come with them, she asked me to call Joe and have him call Dworkin… as for me, the rats called me 'Detective Lake' then they said Judith would be unavailable to work her shift… I was glad of their mistake… mostly because I had told Sgt. Young how no one said anything to me about Beale and blackmail—yeah, I was sitting right next to Judith when that ADA explained everything, but since she wasn't talking to me, I didn't lie… much…._

As the two agents took Judith away, Couch called Benson and gave her the news.

_She cursed a bit then said I was smart to stay out of it… she also thanked me for not doing anything stupid… I thought about giving those rats 'boots to the head,' but that would have cost me my stripes before I even got them…._

Benson's cursing was nothing compared to what Fontana said when he learned about the rats.

_I knew a couple of the words he used from my grandfather… repeating one of them in Grandma's hearing made her attempt soap poisoning on me… after Joe stopped cursing, he said Judith might have to sit tight for a while… he also told me thanks and to stay out of trouble… good thing I'm coasting on Chester's clean record…._

Baxter Pub  
79 Baxter Street  
16 August 4:32 p.m.

After four hours' sleep at his apartment, Elliot Stabler had gone to his family's house.

_I needed some normality… listening to the_ _twins carp at each other… watching Kathy make lunch then eating it with the three of them… fixing things that need fixing—screen door's loose hinge, a rotted board on the fence… Kathleen was at work, but Maureen stopped by while I was working on the fence… I got a big hug from my big girl… can't tell you how good that felt… I know I need to stand down right now… Eshan's dead eyes, Beale and Cap covered in blood, only one of them breathing—God, I wish I could shake those images… being here helps…._

The only two flies in the ointment were the inability of his DEA rep to pin down the time and location of his shooting review, and a call from the DCPI ordering him to make himself available to a reporter from the Ledger at the reporter's earliest convenience.

_I certainly didn't expect that reporter to be Jerry… I already suspected this would be about Beale… I'd talked to Fin—checking on how he was doing—and he said Beale and Balzano had turned the bombing into old news…._

The meeting place chosen by Wilks was the Baxter Pub, a grubby semi-dive kitty-corner from the Tombs, known for its burgers and the frigid temperature of its draft beer.

_This is where the correction officers hang out after work… I didn't see anyone I knew except for Jerry in a back booth… he waved me over then ordered me a beer… he was drinking coffee and chowing down on a burger without onions…. _

While Elliot drank his beer, Jerry had explained how his Sunday night call to the DCPI had led to the story of a lifetime.

"And I owe it all to you," Jerry told him, his mug of coffee held high in salute. "If you hadn't asked me about Newman, I wouldn't have thought to ask if Beale's death was tied to his suicide. Of course…."

Jerry set down his mug and groaned.

"… getting all this shit together by deadline is a real ball-breaker. Only thing keeping me going is the thought of this hitting the street Wednesday morning. That, my friend, will be worth the all-nighters."

"All-nighters?" Elliot asked.

"Yeah. I'll be working straight through Tuesday on this. Last night was spent with the commissioner and the DA then I headed home to write up my notes. This morning bright and early, I was back at One P.P. Spent the day sitting in on meeting and getting interviews then I went with Richardson while he ID'd Balzano's body."

Elliot jerked at that news.

"Yeah," Wilks said, "that's being released at a news conference around six, which I have to be at. "

He took another bite of his burger then he reached for his pen, pad, and pocket recorder.

"So Elliot, now it's your turn. Tell me all about your part in this."

For the next thirty minutes, Elliot related his part in the saga. Jerry stopped him a few times, asking him to clarify a point or match up some facts he had obtained earlier.

_I ran through everything from Liv's and my first meeting with the DA to us waiting at Kings County to hear about Cap… from the two of us laughing at the idea of Beale targeting Cragen to seeing the proof in all its bloody reality…._

"I don't want to put you on the spot," Wilks said, "but I have to ask: how did you and the other SVU detectives miss spotting Beale as a sexual predator?"

Elliot swirled the last inch of beer in his glass while he chose his words carefully.

"We missed it because we were pissed at our captain and we ignored him. Maybe, if we'd been paying attention—"

Wilks stared at Elliot, his pen motionless over the paper.

"You don't really want me to write that down, do you?"

"That's what it boils down to," Elliot replied. "Does the commissioner want you to report the truth or some whitewash?"

Wilks' stare softened then he said, "The truth, mostly. I'm skating around some things to protect Balzano's family and Beale's victims, but everything else is on the up-and-up."

Elliot drained the last of his beer.

_Okay, then here's goes…._

"You know about Operation Chestnut and Chief Sullivan's resignation?"

When Wilks peered at him in puzzlement, Elliot summarized how SVU's takedown of the dirty IAB agents had also had found evidence of the Chief of Department's crimes.

"Sullivan and Cragen went 'way back together, but Sullivan tried to ruin Cragen to save his own ass," Elliot continued. "After that, Cap acted like he cared more about his career than his command and his people. We're dealing with our own shit from that operation while our captain is whoring himself out with Beale as his pimp, trying for a promotion we knew he doesn't deserve. Then we lost two detectives, Tierney and White, in a damn senseless shooting. Cap gave them both great eulogies, but us—hell, he left us to fend for ourselves."

Elliot paused to judge his friend's reaction. Wilks had leaned back from his notepad, his eyebrows raised in amazement at Stabler's bluntness.

_That's how I felt then… I know better now…._

He signaled for a second beer then said, "Of course, none of us suspected it was all an act on Cap's part. Since Beale enticed his prey by offering help with their careers, Cap had to pretend he was focused solely on getting his oak leaves. To fool Beale, he had to fool us, too."

Wilks nodded then he asked, "But was it really an act? Isn't it possible your captain was actually taken in by Beale?"

Elliot's beer arrived. He took a moment to taste it, and to think over his reply.

_No way in hell am I mentioning what Cap did to John and Judith… or how we reacted to his apologies… that's water under the bridge…._

"I think, maybe, he was taken in at first," Elliot replied. "Predators like Beale are damn good at exploiting weaknesses. For Beale, the weakness he looked for was ambition. Cragen must have seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime, and, from Cragen's point of view, Beale probably looked like the answer to a prayer—"

Elliot took another sip of beer.

"—but then, instinct kicked in and Cap realized what Beale really wanted. That's when he took the matter to the DA."

Wilks made some notes then he asked, "So, you're saying even the experts can be fooled?"

Elliot allowed himself a chuckle.

_'Fooled' doesn't even begin to describe it…._

"We've got the same blind spots everyone else has," he replied. "Cap had just had one friend turn on him. I'll bet it was damned hard for him to realize he'd made the same mistake with Beale."

Wilks made a note in his pad then he glanced at his watch.

"I better get moving. Elliot, I really appreciate this. I know it wasn't easy."

Stabler waved away his friend's gratitude.

"Jerry, you know I'll blab every secret I know for a beer."

"Yeah, right."

Wilks slid his notepad into his pocket then he slid from his stool and moved next to Elliot.

"Before it gets lost in all the Beale and Balzano shit," he told Elliot, "I know how bad yesterday could have turned out. I'm glad it didn't go that way."

He held his hand out. Elliot grabbed it in both of his.

"Thanks, man," he said, his voice hoarser than he wanted.

"Don't mention it. With you gone, I'd have to handle all the coaching myself. My gratitude is nothing but self-interest."

Both men laughed as Elliot released his hand hold. Jerry nodded to his friend then he left. Elliot picked up his mug and stared into it.

_So Jerry's writing this up for the Ledger… and the commissioner approved him doing it… Hell must have frozen over… I wonder if Jerry spoke with Cap already… hope he doesn't mind me being blunt about what happened… I'd hate to start that shit over again…._

His cell buzzed in his pocket. Elliot took it out to check its screen.

_Text from my rep… Steve says they want us at One P.P. at seven this evening… there goes dinner with Kathy and the kids…._

He signaled for the bar maid. When she came to his table, he ordered a burger with everything.

_Since I'm can't make it home, I might as well eat… then I'll head over early and try to catch that press conference… see what the official story on Balzano's death is going to be…._

Internal Affairs Bureau  
315 Hudson Street, 3rd Floor  
16 August 5:06 p.m.

Nothing on the outside marked the building at 315 Hudson as containing a New York City police bureau: no signage, no 9/11 remembrance poster, no green globe lights, their color a relic of the night watchman days of New Amsterdam.

_This building used to house a candy factory… Jujubes, I think… never liked them… nasty-tasting gummy things.… _

IAB had its offices on the third floor, which is where the two agents escorting Judith Otten brought her.

Fierce bald eagles painted on either side of the entrance… I guess sewer rats aren't noble enough for an emblem.…

The female agent, Sgt. Quinn, led Otten to an interview room after the male, Detective Cassano, took her service weapon and cell phone. Judith complied silently.

_I'm not saying a word until Dworkin gets here…._

Sgt. Quinn left the door open as she ordered Judith to sit down in the chair at the far side of the table.

_Typical rat treatment: 'You bug, me squish…' no courtesy at all…._

Judith again compiled without speaking. Quinn sat down opposite her while Judith stifled a yawn.

_Only repeat offenders sleep in interrogation… first offenders and the innocent are too worried and scared to relax… I don't want to appear guilty—even though I am… I was afraid Borgia was right, that the DA and the commissioner would protect Balzano at Joe's expense… that's why I gave Borgia's info to Joe... today, Dworkin told us the commissioner already knew about the blackmail, so I didn't pass on anything not already known… I might have hindered their sweeping this under the rug—if they were going to do so, then I certainly hoped I stopped it…._

Cassano entered the room, and closed the door behind him. He then leaned against it, and gave Judith the same cold, hard stare Quinn was aiming at her.

"I'll bet you are wondering why you are here," he said.

Judith returned his stare without comment or expression. Quinn leaned across the table and answered her partner's question.

"Because we know someone sold out the department. Someone took information that should have stayed confidential, and gave it to your boyfriend's lawyer."

"A boyfriend," Cassano continued, "who was tossed out on his ass for arranging to have every complaint made against him disappear."

Judith kept her expression blank.

"Fontana," Quinn said, her sneer distorting the syllables, "your boyfriend, is quite the sleazebag. More people call us about him than any other cop on the force. They ask where his money comes from, and if he is on the take. They wonder about that car he drives and the clothes he wears. They want to know how a detective at his pay grade can afford a co-op with a million-dollar view."

"And they ask about his women," Cassano joined in. "I saw him myself, driving that Benz of his one night last summer. The top was down and he had a real looker in the passenger seat—nothing like you Detective, not at all. She was the sort of woman that makes a man stand up and salute, if you know what I mean."

He walked to the table and gave Judith a slow scan that started at her folded hands, lingered on her chest before moving up her face to meet her gaze.

"Yeah," he drawled, "I'll bet Fontana saluted her all night long."

Judith suppressed the urge to deny the allegation.

_It's probably true… I have a little black book filled with reasons to believe it… but he's saying it only to make me mad… and they're talking about Joe, not Borgia—do they even know what's really going on? Let's see if I can find out…._

She caught Cassano's gaze, then Quinn's, making certain both were focused on her.

"What info did I supposedly pass on?" she asked them.

Quinn blinked and Cassano glanced at his partner, a brief break in his glare that told Judith neither one could answer the question. Judith sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest.

_I may be in trouble—the commissioner's aide as good as said so—but it won't come from these two… I can safely ignore them until bigger guns show up… that's when I'll find out what's coming at me… maybe a reprimand, some lost vacation… shouldn't be too major… after all, in a few days, Joe's going to be cleared… everything will come out… it won't matter what Borgia and I did….._

Judith watched Quinn catch her partner's gaze then tip her head towards the door. As Cassano turned and left the room, Quinn slid her chair out and rose to her feet.

"I heard, she said," her attention focused on Judith, "that, as of this afternoon, Alexandra Borgia is an ex-ADA. You might want to consider that fact while you sit here."

Judith tensed at the news. Quinn smiled at having finally gotten a reaction then she departed, closing the door behind her. Judith listened for the sound of the lock being turned, the _click_almost drowned by the rapid beating of her heart.

_Shit… I am in trouble—big trouble…._

Conference Room  
Office of the Manhattan District Attorney  
16 August 5:10 p.m.

The second item on Dworkin's list had been a request for a non-disclosure clause for the agreement being negotiated. Since such clauses are standard in settlements, Branch and Wilson did not object, although Wilson required that said clause cover not only any settlements and awards, but all information disclosed to the parties participating in the agreement. Dworkin made a checkmark on his list then he read his third item.

Branch caught Wilson's gaze.

_This sounds good to me… in fact, it sounds better than I expected... if I were Fontana's attorney, I'd be demanding a bump in pay retroactive to the dawn of time… Ed looks like he's fretting … maybe he's afraid to look too closely at Dworkin's gift horse—just in case it has Greek soldiers hiding in its gullet…._

The DA nodded to show his acceptance. Wilson turned back to address Dworkin.

"Agreed," he told the attorney. "Your client will be reinstated at his previous rank of detective and at his previous pay grade. As to his assignment, I can't guarantee—"

"My client was assigned to Manhattan South Homicide with Detective Green as his partner," Dworkin noted. "We're not settling for any thing else."

Wilson scowled at the demand.

"Green has a new partner—"

"A neophyte who is not working out too well," Dworkin countered, "so I'm sure whoever is taking command of the squad won't mind ditching her for a much more experienced detective."

Branch hid a smile while Wilson scowled his displeasure.

_I don't have a dog in this hunt… it's purely a police matter… so I can sit back and watch Dworkin tie Ed into knots…._

"Very well," Wilson finally said, "I'll jigger the squad's roster and budget to handle a supernumerary position for your client, but partner assignments are up to the squad commander. Fontana will have to take what he gets."

Branch watched Dworkin weigh the counteroffer. He met Wilson's gaze then tipped his head as though checking to see if change in expression would make Wilson back down. When Wilson's scowl held steady, Dworkin make a check on the paper before him.

"Done," he told the DCLM. "Now, let's discuss what happens if my client is unable to return to his duties."

"Is that likely?" Branch asked. "I thought Fontana was doing well."

"I'm merely covering all the bases," Dworkin replied. "Now, since this gets technical, I had copies made of exactly what it is my client requires."

He slid two sheets of paper from his portfolio then handed one each to Branch and Wilson. The DA read through the paragraph printed on his sheet.

If Detective Joseph Fontana is judged to be incapable of performing the duties required of a detective of the New York City Police Department due to medical disabilities that are a direct or indirect result of any injuries suffered by him on the first of August, 2007, or if he is judged to be unfit for duty due to any other medical, mental, or emotional condition, then any and all retirement agreements agreed to by the New York City Police Department and Det. Fontana must include the following:

1. the restoration of Det. Fontana's good standing with the New York City Police Department  
2. the restoration of his authorization to engage in or supervise the prevention, detection, investigation, prosecution or the incarceration of any person for any violation of law  
3. the restoration of his statutory powers of arrest  
4. the restoration of his non-forfeitable right to benefits under the retirement plan of the New York City Police Department  
5. a guarantee of his fitness to possess firearms and of his right to obtain a firearms permit under HR218

Branch then turned to see Wilson's reaction.

_No reaction showing at all… but he's signaled for me to turn around so we can talk…._

As soon as the two men had their backs toward Dworkin, Branch whispered, "What's the problem here? Can't Fontana retire with the same sack of goodies he'd have gotten if none of this had happened?"

Branch then pointed to the last item on Dworkin's handout.

"And what's HR218, and why does it apply here?"

"It's the 'Law Enforcement Officers Safety Act of 2004,'" Wilson replied. "Among other things, it denies medical retirees the right to carry firearms because their medical condition prevented them from serving as a police officer."

Branch pursed his lips at the news.

"Did Congress see fit to leave a loophole we can shove Fontana through?" he asked.

Wilson shook his head.

"No, but the department's Division of Legal Matters has the authority to arbitrate as to which retirees qualify or not under that HR218. That means I can decide to make precedence by allowing Fontana to carry if he isn't physically fit to serve, which I definitely do not want to do."

Branch nodded at the wisdom in the DCLM's statement.

_Every cop with a medical discharge would be at his door, seeking the same for himself…._

"However," the DA countered, "Fontana has good reason to want to protect himself. Couldn't you give him a carry permit sometime after the dust from this settles."

Wilson shook his head. "No, but I can offer to backdate his retirement agreement to July thirty-first. That way, he would retire as a healthy, reinstated MOS in good standing who just happens to be targeted by an unwarranted attack the day after his retirement took effect."

"That should put a smile on Dworkin's face."

Wilson's derisive snort told Branch how little he cared about the attorney's happiness. He then spun his chair around and made the offer. Dworkin pondered it just long enough to make Wilson squirm then he made another check on the sheet before him.

"Great," the attorney said, "I knew I'd enjoy working with you. Now, that brings us to the matter of Detective Fontana's service revolver. He wants it back."

Dworkin slid another sheet of paper across the table to Ed Wilson.

"It's a Smith and Wesson Model 19, serial number 28K3146. My client will accept no substitutes."

Wilson left the paper on the table.

"It's in the gun locker at the Oh-One," he said. "I checked before I came here."

Dworkin beamed at the news as he made another checkmark.

"We're making real progress. Now…."

He left the syllable dangle. Branch kept his expression still.

_Sounds like this is where the rubber meets the road… either we learn how Fontana wants all the charges against him erased or we learn how much it will cost the city to make him happy… Ed's looking a mite peaked… I guess his pool of patience is running dry…._

Dworkin folded his hands on top of his portfolio as his smile vanished.

"… it's time to talk money. As I alluded to earlier, my client has had to cope not only with horrific injuries and with multiple attempts on his life, but also with horrendous medical bills, not to mention the cost of keeping himself and his fiancée safe from those aforementioned attempts. Since those bills are a direct result of his unwarranted firing by the First Deputy Comm—"

"No one has stipulated to the First Deputy Commissioner's culpability in this," Wilson snapped, "and I won't stipulate to it now. Bureau Chief Andrew Beale had reason to want Fontana dead, not Anthony Balzano."

Branch frowned at the distinction.

_I wonder if Ed realizes we get to do this again with Captain Cragen's and his attorney… judging from Balzano's suicide letter, he had no qualms about giving the order that allowed Beale uninterrupted time with his victim… but that's a problem for a later time….._

Dworkin also frowned at Wilson's objection then he shook his head back and forth as though mentally weighing the distinction.

"I see your point," he finally said. "Allow me to rephrase: those injuries, murder attempts, and expenses are a direct result of Bureau Chief Beale's demand that Detective Fontana be removed from his position on the police force via the actions of the First Deputy Commissioner—"

Wilson growled. Dworkin held up his hand.

"—which were coerced by Beale's blackmail demands. Better?"

The DCLM accepted with a scowl and a nod.

"Now," Dworkin continued, "I could argue that the department's failure to provide my client with a protective detail once death threats were first received by him stems from the actions and decisions of the First Deputy Commissioner, but I won't. It's enough that we all understand that none of this would have happened if the people responsible for the bureau chief and the deputy commissioner had noticed what Beale and Balzano were up to, and had taken steps to prevent the damage they caused."

He paused for a breath.

"So, I ask that the responsible parties, by which I mean the New York City Police Department and the Manhattan District Attorney's Office, be willing to make amends for their failure to prevent the injustices and injuries done to my client and to signal said willingness by…."

Dworkin peered expectantly, first at Wilson, then at the DA. Branch braced himself.

_I know what the mayor wants to pay—as little as possible… I know what our liability insurance wants to pay—the smallest amount that will keep Fontana from suing… and I'm expecting Dworkin here to do like he said earlier and demand the moon…. _

The attorney leaned back in his chair and said, "By making me their best offer."

Branch looked sideways at the DCLM.

_Our best offer? What kind of cockamamie bargaining strategy is that? He knows we'll lowball it—if for no other reason than the hope he might be stupid enough to accept it..._

A light incline of Wilson's head told the DA that this one was all his.

_Suits me… now, let's see what Dworkin says to an offer that should insult his socks off…._

One Police Plaza  
Monday, 16 August 6:15 p.m.

_I can't answer that at this time… No, I don't have an answer to that, either… Mrs. Balzano has gone into seclusion with her family…. I don't know when or if she will be available for comment… No, I don't know what the family's plans are… Again, I can't comment on the cause of death, but I have been assured by the Medical Examiner's office of a report from them sometime late this evening… No, I will not comment on the possibility that Bureau Chief Beale targeted other victims… I won't speculate on who those victims are, should they exist… We do have some documents that appear to address the motivations behind The First Deputy Commissioner's actions—both this morning's and earlier—but, until we complete our investigation, I can't comment on the contents of those documents… No, I have not spoken with Captain Cragen… He has given a statement to detectives… no, we won't be releasing the contents of his statement—right now, our investigation is still under way… The SVU detectives injured yesterday? My understanding is that Detective Tutuola will return to limited duty tomorrow and Detective Munch on Wednesday… Yes, I am very grateful that neither detective was seriously injured... _

Tim Richardson thanked the gathered reporters for their time before they returned to less happy matters. He left the podium, ignoring the reporters who called out to him, and departed the room at a pace just shy of fleeing.

In the hall, he found Terence Fulton and Michelle Young waiting for him. They fell into step with him as he headed for the elevator.

"What's the situation with Detective Otten?" Richardson asked.

"Otten told me she was remaining silent on the advice of her counsel," his aide replied. "Per your orders, I had Internal Affairs pick her up."

Richardson nodded his approval.

_Good.. Otten knows better than to pass sensitive departmental intel to outsiders… disciplining her right now, when I'm trying to open up the culture, could prove a bit embarrassing… but I have to make an example of her…._

"However," Young continued, "Commissioner Wilson called a few minutes ago to say her attorney has asked for immunity for her, and Detectives Green and Cassady."

Fulton asked why in hell, beating the commissioner to the question.

"He said it was for their part in the unauthorized operation last Thursday at Mercy Hospital," Young replied, "but Dworkin worded it to cover any action of theirs pertaining to Beale and the first deputy commissioner."

Richardson slowed his pace so he could stare at his aide.

_I should have expected something like this... Fontana is street-wise, and his attorney is no slouch, either…._

He stifled a sigh by turning it into a much-needed yawn.

"Did Ed agree?" he asked.

Sgt Young nodded. "He said the DA backed his decision."

_Damn… I said I'd stand by Ed's decisions here… so I get to swallow yet another turd sandwich and call it haute cuisine…._

Richardson snorted in disgust then he said, "Hell, we need to make Fontana happy. If that's what it takes, and since Arthur signed off on it, I'm forced to do the same. Terence, what's the latest on Beale's victims?"

Although no one was in sight, Terence waited until the three of them were in the elevator before he answered.

"All of them have been told. Reactions are shock and denial. So far, none appear interested in going public."

Fulton said nothing about any offers of counseling or financial settlements.

_That's the DA's nightmare, not ours… as far as Beale's victims go, my only concern is damage control… if one or more of them talk to the media, it might expose the others, including Paul Balzano… and that would focus attention on Tony and the sleight-of-hand we're hoping to pull off for him…._

"Of course," Fulton continued, "who knows what they'll do or who they'll talk to when the shock wears off."

"Remind me to ask Roland to have his people prepare for that eventuality," Richardson told his aide. "Some sort of statement detailing how we wanted to protect the privacy and well-being of both the victims, and Tony's wife and son. He'll know how to word it."

Young entered the note into her BlackBerry, finishing it as the elevator doors opened on the fourteenth floor. The two men went straight for the commissioner's inner office while she headed for her own desk. Fulton closed the office door behind the two men, then he waited until the commissioner had removed his jacket before he spoke.

"I know you and Ed thrashed this out already," Fulton said, "but do you really think we can pull off hiding Beale's other victims? I know you want to protect Tony's son, but you're asking more than a dozen people to keep a secret, including that ADA Branch fired."

Richardson frowned at the question. He bought some time before answering by offering coffee to the chief of operations, an offer Fulton declined. The commissioner leaned against his desk and considered his answer.

_Those who know about Beale's other victims: me, Terence, Ed, Steve, and Roland, Arthur, Jack, Borgia, and the two investigators from their office, Detective Benson, Dworkin, Fontana, and Otten… we told Sylvia and Paul only about Newman… that's means fourteen people have to keep those victims secret…._

Well, Terence," Richardson replied, "I'm willing trust to you, Ed, Steve, and Roland. Chief Conrad and Michelle have talked to Benson, and I know Arthur will keep his people in line."

"What about that ADA? If I were canned the way she just was…."

Fulton let his sentence trail off. Richardson nodded to show he caught the chief's unspoken inference.

"Professional canons will serve to keep both Borgia and Dworkin quiet," he said. "Disbarment is a death sentence in this town. As for the detective she blabbed to, immunity or not, if Otten even thinks about talking, I'll personally strip her of her pension and benefits."

Terence's broad smile showed his appreciation of the promise.

"Sounds good to me," he said. "You going to do the same to Fontana?"

"I've asked Ed to include a non-disclosure clause into any agreement we reach with Fontana. If he knows we can yank his shield and jail him, it should keep him quiet."

Terence nodded his approval.

"Okay, you've thought this through," he told Richardson, "so I'll let you worry about it."

The chief then asked Richardson if he needed anything else. When Richardson said he didn't, Fulton took his leave and returned to his own office. Richardson glanced at the paperwork covering his desk and frowned.

_Yes, it is my worry… too much can go wrong… all I can do is my honest best, and hope honesty gets rewarded… I know better, but there's always a first time…._


	40. So Good to Me: Part Four

After all these chapters, I still can't type "Dworkin" correctly.

Croesus: king of Lydia (in ancient Asia Minor) known for his great wealth

_Bisl_: Yiddish , means 'a little bit'

Leaving money on the table: phrase meaning 'to negotiate poorly, to fail to extract the last dollar from a deal'

To jew you: derogatory term meaning "to drive a hard bargain"

Castle Clinton: a National Historic Site and park across the street from where Fontana lives (and a Real Place)

_Gai kakn oyfn yam_: Yiddish. Often translated as "Get lost!", a more accurate translation is "Go shit on the ocean."

The Whitehouse Hotel: A Real Place

Renault: Inspector Renault, commander of the Sixteenth Precinct

The Orbach School: not a real place

Since this story takes place in 2007 (it branches into AU after the episode "Raw"), John Munch is not a sergeant

Bernie Munch: from the TV show _Homicide: Life on the Street_s. Bernie is John's younger and only sibling, and he owns a funeral home.

'..._ that child pornography case that turned into gross corporate malfeasance...'_: Season Eight Episode "Loophole", aired 2.6.2007

NFDA: National Funeral Directors Association (a Real Organization) Their conferences are in April; I moved this one for my story

The Waterfront: the bar Munch owned a third of in Baltimore. _Homicide: Life of the Streets_ had a running subplot describing what a losing proposition it was. Munch probably lost his share in his divorce from his fourth wife.

Events in this story move faster than they would in Real Life. Procedures in this story are designed to reflect the needs of the story, not the realities of the NYPD or the DA's office. Characters curse in this chapter.

Conference Room  
Office of the Manhattan District Attorney  
16 August 5:51 p.m.

_I fully expect Dworkin to guffaw at my offer… and then counter with an amount even Croesus couldn't cover... we'll dicker back and forth... me jumping my offer a little, him dropping his a bit... finally, we'll meet somewhere in the middle... me hoping we meet closer to my starting offer, him hoping for something closer to his... it's a dance as old as the hills and I get to make the first move..._

Arthur Branch straightened in his chair. Across the table, Dworkin grinned back at him.

"The City of New York," Branch told the attorney, "on behalf of my office and the New York City Police Department, will pay your client's expenses for his protection from the date Fontana's employment was terminated through tomorrow."

_Fontana should be reinstated by then, which will make his safety the police's responsibility… if he wants to hang onto his security guards, that's his choice…._

"The City of New York," Branch continued, "will also cover your client's medical expenditures as though he had been injured during an unsanctioned off-duty activity."

_Just as if Fontana had been shot my a jealous husband… which means he'll eat a goodly portion of his doctor bills..._

Branch then stopped to wait for Dworkin's response. Next to the DA, Wilson dropped his hand below the table and gave Branch a thumbs-up. Across the table, Dworkin's smile never wavered.

"C'mon, Arthur," he said, "not even a _bisl_ for pain and suffering? Surely my client deserves something for all he has been—"

Branch interrupted him.

"We pay ten thousand dollars, and your client signs an agreement stating he will not pursue additional awards or settlements in this matter."

He watched Dworkin's gaze shift from his face to Wilson's and back again. Then, without as much as a twitch of his smile, Dworkin made another check mark on his list.

"Done," he said. "Now, my last item is—"

The sudden acceptance of the lowball made Wilson jump in his chair. Arthur frowned as he peered across the table.

"Are you certain," he asked, "that you want to move to the next item on your list?"

Dworkin's smile widened until he was grinning like a cherub.

"As certain as rain on the weekend," he replied. "Now, as I said, my last item—"

Arthur held up his hand to silence Dworkin.

_Surely Dworkin isn't planning to leave so much money on the table…_

"Son, seriously," he asked the attorney, "aren't you going to make a counteroffer?"

Dworkin's smile twisted into a sneer.

"Tell me you're not suggesting I should jew you into a better offer."

Branch reared back, shocked by the epithet.

"No, I'm not," he replied as he shook his head in denial, "and far be it from me to stop you from short-changing your client."

Dworkin's sneer vanished. He then dropped his gaze to his portfolio as though he needed to refresh his memory. Branch looked at Wilson , but the DCLM only shrugged to show he had no explanation.

Arthur swallowed a sigh.

_I guess it's my turn to refrain from checking the mouth of this gift horse… I wonder what Fontana's going to say when he learns how little he's getting…._

"Oh, yes—here we are."

Dworkin tapped his pen against the paper in front of him.

"Last of all, we have those complaints that magically appeared in my client's personnel file right before he was fired."

Branch leaned back in his chair.

_This one is all Ed's… he told me earlier that Balzano had referenced ten complainants when he fired Fontana… today, after Richardson learned how the complaints had been hidden, he found dozens more—none of which had been investigated…._

Next to the DA, Wilson cleaned his throat.

_No one, from the commissioner on down, wants to dismiss so many complaints, but that is what Dworkin will demand... should demand, anyway… right now, I'm not sure what he's doing…. _

Across the table, Dworkin also cleared his throat.

"Must be catchy," he said. "Now, my client wants the department to make it known that he had nothing whatsoever to do with the mishandling of the complaints made against him."

Wilson turned to Branch and whispered Wilks' name. Branch nodded.

_Everyone who can read will be reading Wilks' story on this mess... a sidebar explaining Fontana's involvement in this—and his lack of involvement with those complaints—should serve to clear him..._

Wilson made the offer of an interview with the Ledger reporter and a prominent place in the reporting of the matter, one that stressed Fontana's reinstatement and his innocence of all allegations and charges against him.

"We'll take that," Dworkin said, "but my client also asks that each and every one of those complaints be processed by the Civilian Complaint Review Board."

He then folded his hands and looked expectantly at Branch and Wilson. The DA shifted his gaze towards Wilson.

_Has Fontana lost his marbles? He just got himself reinstated… why in hell would he risk getting fired again?_

Wilson muttered something about Fontana being nuts then he said, "You're talking about dozens of complaints, some of which date back to the early nineties. It would take weeks, maybe months, to track down all the complainants and witnesses. I can't tie up either the review board or the monitoring board like that."

"Not my concern," Dworkin told him. "You asked what my client required to put this behind him. What he requires is an opportunity to defend his actions and clear his name, something that has been denied him for years thanks to the actions of—"

Wilson waved off the attorney's attempt to repeat the litany of sins committed against Fontana. He then glanced about the room as though searching for a way out of his problem. Branch ignored him to watch Dworkin.

_He seems a mite uneasy… he knows this one isn't in his client's best interests…._

Wilson again cleared his throat, taking Branch from his thoughts.

"Would your client agree," he asked Dworkin, "to a review of only the complaints cited by the first deputy commissioner in his decision to terminate Fontana's employment? Ten complaints shouldn't burden the CCRB unduly."

Dworkin pursed his lips together as he considered the proposal.

"The Ledger write-up and a review of the ten most recent complaints," he summarized. "I think I can sell that."

He made another check mark on his paper then he asked, "Do you have someone available to type up our agreement or should I have my office produce it?"

Arthur held up his hand.

"We're not finished yet. We have a request of our own to make of your client."

Dworkin peered at the district attorney.

"We've already agreed to non-disclosure. What more do you want?"

Wilson answered his question.

"Thanks to the actions of ADA Borgia and Detective Otten, your client knows that Andrew Beale attacked other victims, including Paul Balzano. We've decided that the existence and identities of those other victims will never be made public. We want assurances over and beyond the non-disclosure agreement that your client will keep this information to himself. If he does not—"

The deputy commissioner paused to glare at Dworkin.

"—we intend to recover all awards and recompense rendered to your client, including his reinstatement. ADA Borgia lost her job because she didn't keep her mouth shut, and only your client's demand for immunity is keeping Detective Otten from disciplinary action for her part in this matter. That's how serious we are about these names staying private."

As Wilson spoke, all traces of good humor left Dworkin's face. His gaze went cold and his grip on his pen became a fist.

_Oh-oh… I'd better jump in before Ed's overzealousness runs roughshod over all our hard work…._

Branch coughed to draw attention to himself.

"That's the stick," he told Dworkin. "Now, here's the carrot. Before he shuffled from this mortal coil, Tony Balzano left behind a letter. It explains, among other things, why the complaints made against your client never were acted upon. It also tells how Tony deeply regretted being used by Beale not only to remove Fontana from the police force, but also to put him in harm's way."

The DA assumed his "I have nothing in my heart but your best interests" smile.

"Now, it just might give Fontana some closure to know those things. If you and your client will agree to keep quiet about Beale's victims, we'll let Fontana read that letter."

Branch watched as Dworkin's expression softened.

_But not by much... something still has him riled up..._

"Yes," he replied, "my client will keep quiet about Beale's other victims."

"Then we're agreed?" Wilson asked.

Dworkin considered the matter for a moment then he nodded.

"We're agreed."

Wilson's tight smile came nowhere near to matching Branch's relief.

_That was much less expensive than we feared… the mayor will be pleased—so will the insurance company… it also gets Wilson and me off the hook… no embarrassing public apology… no reporters asking me why I recommended Beale for bureau chief… my campaign supporters will appreciate that…._

Wilson's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"We'll get this agreement ready for signing. Can Fontana handle a trip to police headquarters sometime tomorrow? We'll do everything—his reinstatement, Wilks' interview, Tony's letter—all of it then."

When Dworkin agreed, the three men quickly set a meeting of one-thirty the next day at the commissioner's office.

"Gentlemen," Dworkin as he rose to his feet, "I'll see you both tomorrow."

Branch also stood with Wilson joining him.

"Tell Fontana I look forward to meeting him," Branch said.

Dworkin nodded then he pursed his lips as though deciding whether to speak again or not.

_Man's still chewing on something… _

Branch felt the weight of Dworkin's glare as the attorney asked, "Did you really fire ADA Borgia?"

Branch gave him a curt nod.

"I did. Given what she did, I had to."

The attorney stared at Branch for a moment longer then he said, "You lost a good one there."

Before Branch could reply, Dworkin picked up his portfolio and left the conference room.

_He flew out of here like a homesick angel… I'll have to ask Jack if there is something between Alexandra and him… might help explain why she lost her senses…._

"Now that he's gone," Wilson said, interrupting the DA's thoughts, "I want to know if this agreement feels right to you."

Branch scowled at the question.

"Edwin," he replied, "not a damn thing feels right about it. Dworkin should have demanded we castrate ourselves with a rusty can opener so he could have himself a Rocky Mountain oyster feast."

"I don't think testicles are kosher," Wilson noted.

Branch waved away the objection.

"The fact is," he continued, "it does trouble me. However, I'm sure Dworkin has his reasons."

_Although damned if I can see what they might be…._

The DA then held out his open hand to urge Wilson toward the door.

"Why don't you call Tim and let him know what we've accomplished while I hunt up a clerk who type this up?"

_Then I need to talk to Jack… see how Borgia took being let go… Dworkin is wrong about her… the good ones don't share our secrets with the opposing side… even if Borgia thinks I'm wrong, I'm the DA and that makes me always—_

The door swung open to readmit Randolph Dworkin, who greeted Branch with a grim frown.

"I just checked my messages," he told the two men. "It seems Detective Otten was picked up by Internal Affairs earlier this evening. Any chance I can get her immunity agreement right now?"

Hospital Room of Donald Cragen  
Kings County Hospital, Brooklyn, NY  
16 August 7:05 p.m.

_After Tullia finished crying, she and I talked… she told me Richardson had asked her to represent the Balzano family when he announced to the media that her brother's body had been identified… she said she wasn't thrilled about doing it… I asked what her sister-in-law and nephew thought about it… seems they're is in seclusion somewhere… after everything that hit that family today, I can't say I blame them… in the end, Tullia talked herself out of going..._

Tullia had offered to turn the room's TV to the press conference before she left at six o'clock. Cragen opted for quiet then went back to sleep. When he woke, George Huang was sitting in Lynnie's chair. Seated in a chair next to the psychiatrist was a tall, sandy-haired man unknown to Don. The stranger was stifling a yawn as he and Huang conversed, their voices too low for Don to hear what they were saying.

_Maybe I'm so insane, I need two shrinks…._

Don raised a hand, slowly due to the IVs attached to it, and waved at the two men.

"George," he said, "How's it going?"

The two men turned toward Don, Huang responding to Don's greeting with a relieved smile.

_Last time we spoke, George told me I was screwing up my command… I ordered him out of my office… it's good to know he doesn't hold a grudge.…_

"Don," Huang continued, "this is Jerry Wilks. He covers the state house for the Ledger. The commissioner has given him exclusive access to the people involved with the Beale and Balzano matters. If you are up to it, he'd like to ask you some questions."

At the mention of more questions, Don shook his head.

"I already told everything to Olivia," he said, "and someone from Brooklyn South. Sorry, but I don't remember his name."

"Bud Greenberg," Wilks replied, "and you don't have to tell me everything. I have Detectives Greenberg's and Detective Benson's notes, and the recording she made here this morning."

Don mustered the strength to raise an eyebrow.

_Richardson must really need a favor from the Ledger to give you that kind of access…._

"I'd like for you to clear up a couple points," Wilks continued, "and give your reaction to some of the quotes I have. Can you spare me five—maybe ten minutes?"

Don sighed.

_I'm damn sick of all of this… but talking about it beats dreaming it all over again…._

He acquiesced with a nod. Wilks quickly set up a pocket recorder then he took out his notepad. He first asked how and when Cragen had figured out the bureau chief's intentions and what had made him approach the DA with his concerns. When Don finished explaining, Wilks then asked about the precautions Cragen had taken.

_I told him about the webcams and about telling John… Willks then told me he had spoken with John earlier today... John remembers nothing about secret code words or calling to make sure I was safe with Beale…._

Don shuddered at the thought of being safe with his attacker. George asked if he were all right.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Can we wrap this up?"

Wilks flipped back a few pages in his notebook.

"Two more questions," he promised. "I asked Detective Stabler why your detectives had failed to spot Beale as a sexual predator. He said it was partly because Beale was very experienced, and partly because your people were too angry at you to care what happened. Here's the exact quote."

Wilks took out a second recorder. As Stabler's voice filled the hospital room, explaining how pissed he had been at his CO, Don noticed Huang watching him intently.

_George won't need to do my my psych evaluation… Elliot has it nailed…._

When the replay of Stabler's words ended, Wilks asked if Don wanted to comment on what his detective had said.

_Oh, boy—another chance to admit my failures in public… it's like AA, but without the coffee…._

Don took a moment to compose his thoughts, then he said, "I was very angry after Sullivan resigned, both for what he tried to do me and the department, and because he wasn't led out in cuffs and tried for his crimes. By the time I got back on an even keel, I'd let Beale almost get his hooks in me."

"And were you ignoring your people?"

Don shook his head.

"No, but I was officious, dictatorial, and an all-round son of a bitch."

Huang's lips twitched into a smile.

_Glad you think it's funny... maybe, in a few years, I'll agree with you..._

Wilks paused to make some notes then he asked, "You'll be a deputy inspector and a precinct commander when you get back to work. Does Andrew Beale deserve any of the credit for your promotion?"

The word "promotion" put Don back in his kitchen, his hand still clasping the mug of drugged coffee he was setting aside for CSU to test, the sound of Beale struggling to pull his weapon from his pants pocket coming from behind him.

_If his gun had come free… if he'd gotten the jump on me… if I had drunk that coffee… what Beale did for me was nothing more than a sick form of foreplay…._

"All that help and advice," Don replied, his voice thick with scorn, "was offered to serve his own evil needs. I'm not grateful to him—not at all. I only wish we'd caught him about a dozen victims ago.

Wilks' pen paused in its writing.

"I've been instructed to omit any mention of previous victims," he told Cragen. "Can I make that '… before he got to Marc Newman.'"

Don nodded.

"It's going to be damned hard to keep those victims secret," he said.

"That's not my worry," Wilks replied, "but I hope they can swing it. Bad enough what happened to them. They don't need guys like me hounding them about it."

"A reporter with a heart," Huang noted. "Good for you."

Wilks smiled at the compliment. He pocketed his notepad and recorders then he thanked Don and left. George left his chair to stand by Don's bedside.

"Don," he said, "you look horrible."

After all the cheery greetings he had received that day, George's truthfulness hit Don hard. The psychiatrist smiled at his surprise

"When people tell patients how good they look," he explained, "it tends to make them attempt more than they are able to do. You're better off remembering that you're injured so you'll act accordingly."

"I'm sure that's great advice, Doc," Don told him, "but I don't need any help remembering I hurt."

Huang smiled at the jibe.

"I'll let you rest. Later on, when you're stronger, we'll talk."

The mention of rest set Don's eyelids to drooping. He forced them open long enough to hear Huang wish him well then he let them close, shutting out the world for another nap.

Internal Affairs Bureau  
315 Hudson Street, 3rd Floor  
16 August 7:14 p.m.

Sergeant Quinn was true to her word. She left Otten sitting alone in the interview room with nothing to do but to consider ADA Borgia's firing.

_Every failure needs a fall guy... if the DA fired Borgia, then the commissioner could be planning on me as his scapegoat... I'm sure the rats are watching what I do... listening in case I say something... I can't act like I'm worried..._

Judith stifled a yawn.

_Except I am worried... me losing my shield just when Joe gets his back would be a sick cosmic joke... and I need to stop picturing Branch firing Borgia and think of something else..._

The first idea that entered her mind brought a slight smile to Judith's lips.

_How about wedding plans? I haven't canceled the event permit for the Conservancy gardens at Castle Clinton... I can keep the reception at the Veneto Club and have the ceremony outside... we'll have to find a way to get Joe back and forth... he refuses to use a wheelchair... maybe a golf cart... except, if I'm canned, I won't want a public anything... I'll want to crawl away somewhere and hide... but that's not going to happen... not right now, at least... they'll put me on suspension until they hold a hearing... thinking about it makes my stomach hurt... concentrate on the wedding... pretend I'm not here... think about how to move seventy-eight guests and the wedding party between the park and the club..._

Judith rested her chin on the palm of her hand and focused on the logistics of an outdoor wedding with an indoor reception. When the sound of her name and a shake of her shoulder intruded on her thoughts, she jerked upright to find her attorney standing beside her, a sheet of paper and a pen held in his hands.

"Sorry about waking you," Dworkin told her, "but you have to be awake to walk out of here."

Before she could ask what was going on or if the word about Borgia was true, he said, "This is an offer of immunity for any action taken by you as a result of anything said or done by First Deputy Commissioner Anthony Balzano and Sex Crimes Bureau Chief Andrew Beale. I recommend that you sign it."

Judith took the document and quickly read it through..

_He's right... this gets me off the hook for anything and everything... but why?_

When she asked that question, Dworkin only replied, "It's been a long day. Just sign the form."

_In other words, don't question my 'Get out of jail free' card... fine, but you're acting annoyed and serious so something must be up..._

Judith accepted his pen then she wrote her signature at the bottom of the paper. Dworkin took the document and his pen from her then he pointed at the door.

"Outside this room," he told her, "are Chief Marczek and Deputy Commissioner Wilson. You now have immunity, so you could say '_Gai kakn oyfn yam,'_ but I suggest you listen to what they say and agree to it."

"I'm well aware," she told him, "that the brass have long memories. Do you know what they going to say?"

Dworkin explained the commissioner's plan to keep Beale's earlier victims a secret from the public and the press. After Judith said she had no problem agreeing with it, Dworkin pointed again towards the door.

"Then let's get out of here. I still have to tell soon-to-be-Detective-again Fontana the good news."

Judith remained in her chair.

_But you're not acting like it's good news..._

"You're ducking my questions," she told him. "What about Borgia and what else 's wrong?"

Dworkin snorted at her questions.

"You are employed," he replied, "and Fontana is re-employed. However..."

He strode across the room and put his hand on the door knob, his gaze fixed on the metal as though he planned to rip it from its fastenings when he finished speaking.

"... ADA Borgia is very much unemployed. You can get the rest of the details from your _fiancé. I'm sure he'll have plenty to say."_

SVU Squadroom

16 August 7:54 p.m.

After IAB took Otten away, Olivia Benson sent Loudoun to join Sofarelli in his canvassing, but she had to yank them from it when a call came about a camera hidden in the girls' restroom at the Orbach School. Womack and Metcalf from Brewster's shift were near Third Avenue and East Fifty-Seventh.

_Dan and Amanda are working a complaint from a woman who was riding the M103 bus home... she said a man reached from the seat behind her and groped her breast hard enough to leave bruises... Queens SVU had several similar complaints last month... maybe their guy is trying his luck on Manhattan buses... _

Olivia and Lake were the only two in the squadroom.

_I got too little sleep, and I've got too little patience... so, of course, the phones won't stop ringing... I guess it's a good thing... keeping busy stops me from seeing the fresh paint in the hall... from staring at Don's empty office, Fin's empty desk, John's empty desk, Elliot's empty desk... turning around to look at Chester and thinking about how close they all came to dying yesterday..._

Her phone rang again.

"SVU, Detective Benson."

The call was from a Detective Carter with Irving PD in Texas.

_He said a man wanted for attempted rape of a child in their city skipped town then sent his mother a postcard of the Empire State Building... he asked if we could check out the return address... 340 Bowery is the Whitehouse Hotel, a turn-of the-century flophouse now billing itself as a hostel..._

Olivia glanced around the room and spotted Officer Taylor at the coffeepot. She waved him over to her desk then sent him and his partner to see if the suspect was still in residence at the Whitehouse.

_How stupid is it to put your name on a postcard where everyone can see it? _

Her phone rang again. Olivia answered it.

"_It's me,"_ her partner replied. _"I'm off suspension."_

Olivia bit back the urge to tell him she already knew.

"That was fast," she said instead.

"_So was the review. You need me to come in tonight?"_

Olivia frowned at the notes scattered on her desk.

_Hell, yes... and can you bring six or eight detectives with you?_

"I sure do," she told him. "How about heading to Battery City? We got a call-back from a card Greg left during a canvass he and Jason did Friday. Man says he may have seen their suspect entering the building."

She read the name and address for Elliot to jot down then she summarized the case for him.

"_Got it,"_ Elliot said. _"You holding up okay?"_

Olivia growled at the question.

"The damn phones won't quit ringing, and I can't stop yawning."

"_Tell you what—when I come in, I'll bring some chocolate frou-frou coffee. Will that help?"_

The offer made her smile.

"Sounds scrumptious. I can't wait."

"_See you when I get there,"_ he replied then he ended the call.

Olivia kept her hand on the phone's receiver in case it rang again. When it stayed silent, she spun in her chair to see what Chester was doing. His head was resting on his right hand, his left holding his desk phone's receiver to his ear.

_Glass shards everywhere... splinters of wood and chunks of plaster... body parts and blood... the carnage I saw in Don's kitchen covering the squadroom... how many dead and injured? Would the blast have reached the holding tank and Robbery? The rooms below us? How many dead and wounded?_

She shook her head to clear her mind's eye then she put her attention to Chester's phone conversation.

"Even if they did," he was saying, "it's still not possible. Sperm dies when the semen dries, and that happens within an hour after it leaves the body and hits air."

Chester caught Olivia's gaze and moved the receiver of his phone from his face.

"You won't believe this one," he mouthed to her before returning to his call.

"No, ma'am," she heard him say. "There's no way your daughter could get pregnant that way. Maybe you should consider—"

He jerked his ear away from the receiver then replaced it in its cradle.

"What was that?" Olivia asked.

Chester's weary gaze told her his low opinion of the caller.

"That," he said, "was a woman asking if foreign workers making tampons deliberately ejaculate on the product to protest low wages and bad working conditions."

_Talk about gross... _

"You're kidding?"

Chester shook his head.

"She said her daughter is unexpectedly expecting, and since—"

"—her daughter is a good girl who doesn't even have a boyfriend—" Olivia chimed in.

Chester grinned as he finished the sentence.

"—the mother is hoping tampons made by foreign workers are the cause."

"What happened when you told her it was impossible?"

"She hung up on me. We get all kinds, don't we?"

Olivia nodded at the truth in his words. He grabbed a pen to make a note of the call while she watched him.

_I should stop staring... I got two more requests for detectives on my desk... I need to farm one of them out to Bronx SVU then ask Renault for a loaner to go with me on the other... but, if I turn back around, I'll see that patch of fresh paint in the hall... right where Elliot dropped the kid with the bomb... right where Fin kept him from setting it off—_

Chester interrupted her thoughts.

"You're thinking about yesterday, right?"

_It's that obvious? Shit... I need to say something... make a joke... don't let on I'm having trouble coping..._

Before Olivia could think of a snappy line, Chester spoke.

"I had a kid draw down on me once," he said, his voice husky and low. "He wasn't six feet from me. If my partner hadn't shot him, I'd be dead."

Lake's gaze shifted from her as though he were seeing that scene again.

"I keep thinking about Cragen last night—close quarters, nowhere to go. He's lucky you got there in time."

His praise caught Olivia by surprise.

_I can't stop thinking about the attempting bombing here yesterday... Chester was in the thick of that, but it's Don's shooting that has him shaking... I'll bet Huang will have something pithy to say about that..._

She tried to smile, but her lips barely twitched.

"Fin's lucky, too," she told Lake. "If you guys—"

Lake's phone rang again, followed a moment later by Olivia's phone. Chester shrugged his shoulders as though apologizing then he reached for his phone Olivia matched his shrug then she spun her chair around again.

_As much as we might need it, there's no rest for the weary..._

Bellevue Hospital  
16 August 8:16 p.m.

By late afternoon, John Munch was feeling better.

_My head still hurts, but the room has stopped spinning... I can sit up and move without wanting to vomit... there's no reason I can't home... sleep in my own bed... wear my own pajamas... eat food I can identify..._

Unfortunately, his discharge date and time had been recorded in the hospital's system for the next day, and Sergeant Walker had threatened to pull rank if John tried to leave without his doctor's blessing.

_One of the few drawbacks to having Connie in my life... she won't let me make stupid decisions..._

Since he could not go home, John resigned himself to a boring evening of basic cable in his hospital room. He was clicking through the channels, grousing about how his tax dollars were being used to foist Fox News on helpless patients, when he heard a familiar voice in the hallway asking which room John Munch was in.

_Bernie?_

A second later, a man in a black suit and somber tie came into the room. Bernard Munch was five years years younger and four inches shorter than John, but his lanky build and thin countenance marked him as a Munch. He halted at the foot of John's bed and scowled at him.

"Bernie?" John repeated aloud. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard your name on the five o'clock news," his brother replied, "during a story about a bomb attempt on your squadroom while your commander was being shot by the Sex Crimes chief prosecutor."

He paused to frown again at John then he said, "All they said was that you were injured."

John winced.

_Guess I should have asked Connie to call him..._

"I kept calling your phone on the way to the train station," Bernie continued, "but I was almost to Philly before some woman answered. She told me what happened. "

Bernie took a step closer, his frown deepening as he said, "I thought your partner was a man named Tuna-something."

"You mean Odafin Tutuola," John said, enunciated each syllable carefully. "I'm working with Donna Loudoun now. She's from Special Frauds."

Bernie's reply was a curt "Oh."

_Is he upset he didn't know about me changing partners? I don't clear things with him... in fact, I haven't seen Bernie in... damn, it's been almost three years... I did call him on his birthday—no, I didn't... I was working that child pornography case that turned into gross corporate malfeasance..._

John glanced back at his brother.

_He looks like he's about to yell at me for being alive and wasting his time..._

"Hey," John said in the hope of forestalling a lecture, "it's not my fault you didn't know. I have a concussion and the room didn't stop spinning until a couple of hours ago."

"Someone should have called," Bernie shot back. "Someone should have let me know your condition. I'm your next of kin and I should be informed."

John's gaze dropped from his brother's face.

_I think I put Uncle Morrie on the form... I was staying with him when I first moved here... lot of good he'd do me—he died six years ago..._

"I'm not your next of kin?"

John raised a hand in apology.

"I haven't updated it in a while. I'll fix it as soon as I can get at my desk."

Bernie waved his offer away with a sneer.

"Don't bother. We're just brothers. It's not like we're close or anything. Hell, I haven't seen you since we got together for Uncle Andrew's eightieth birthday. I know Louise invites you for the holidays, but you always have something else to do."

John blew out a long breath.

_I stay away because Baltimore is the scene of my many screw-ups... seeing you with your family and hearing you talk about how well things are going... it's like you're rubbing my failures in my face..._

"You could come here, you know," John told him, shifting the topic from himself. The train runs—"

His brother interrupted him.

"I was here in May for the NFDA conference at the Javits Center. I called you, sent you e-mail, even left a message for you at work. What did I get back from you? Nothing."

John quickly thought back to what he was doing in May that was so important.

_That's when I started obsessing about Otten... I was researching her, looking for weaknesses... fat lot of good it did me..._

He rolled his eyes in disgust at how he had acted in response to Judith Otten's transfer to SVU.

"Fine," Bernie said. "Play the sophisticate. Be too high and mighty for your brother from Pikesville."

He turned for the door before John could explain.

"Give me a call sometime," he said without looking back.

John felt himself go cold at the sarcasm hiding the hurt in his brother's voice.

_Bernie dropped everything to come up here... for all he knew, he'd be taking my body back with him for burial... _

John pictured himself lying on a mortician's work table while his brother performed the required procedures and rituals.

_He'd handle me himself, making sure everything was done right... and knowing how I had left without saying a word to him... just like Dad did..._

His throat and chest tightened from the pain that loss still brought him.

_Why would I do that to my little brother?_

"Bernie—"

His brother stopped and turned his head barely enough to look at John.

_I'd better talk fast... Bernie's only patient with the dead..._

"I didn't get back to you last May because—well, because I busy fighting off what I thought was an attempt to force me to retire. Turned out to be nothing but a paranoid fantasy, but I really screwed the pooch as a result and almost got myself fired.."

Bernie raised an eyebrow.

_Okay, I got him listening..._

"Since then, I helped to bring down the chief of department. I slugged a lieutenant..."

_It was a thing of beauty... I can show you the video..._

"... and I caught a serial killer and a buttload of rapists and pedophiles..."

_A little police humor..._

"... and I met a wonder—"

"Yeah," Bernie said, interrupting him. "You've been busy. Let me know if it ever lets up."

He took another step toward the door. John steeled himself to try again.

_I can't let him leave... not like this..._

"Look," he said, "it's not like that. It's more like—like, when I see you, I see home and Mom and Dad, and you know what that was like. When I see your family, I see my alimony checks. You talk about the funeral home and how well it's doing, and I see the Waterfront and how much it cost me. You're successful and secure and respected, and I'm..."

John let his sentence trail off.

… _and I'm not... that's all there is to it..._

Across the room, he saw Bernie tip his head forward and peer at him.

_He looks like Dad when he does that..._

"You," his brother said slowly, "you envy me?"

John clenched his teeth together as he nodded in reply. Bernie walked to the foot of John's bed then gripped the rail with both hands.

"Johnnie, I bury dead people. I'm damned good at it, but any doofus with a shovel can bury a body. It's not rocket science."

John saw him bite down on his lower lip, a twitch he remembered Bernie doing as a little kid whenever he was nervous or scared.

"Nobody shoots or stabs morticians. They don't even yell at us—not much, anyway, but you..."

He raised his arm to point at John.

"You're the one who almost got killed arresting a pedophile. You're the one taking murderers and rapists of the streets. You're—"

"I'm the one eating into your profit margin?"

The quip slipped out of John's mouth before he thought. He braced himself for Bernie's reaction, but his brother smiled at the joke.

"Not so much," he replied. "There's plenty of other deaths to keep me going."

The smile stayed on his face as Bernie said, "You're the important one, John. There's a hell of a lot of respect for you. You're just not around to see it."

John met his brother's gaze, warmed by the praise and shamed by the truth in Bernie's words.

_Yeah, I separated myself... I avoided one source of pain and caused a different one..._

"I should have called you on your birthday," he admitted, his voice roughened by guilt.

"I didn't called on yours," Bernie replied, "but I should have. I'm glad you're okay."

His brother then reached for his hip pocket. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. John copied the action with tissues from the hospital-supplied box by his bed.

_I'll see them on my bill... 'three tissues at one dollar each'... another example of health care companies gouging the sick... and those who finally manage to reconnect with their brother..._

He was glad Bernie took a while to put his handkerchief away; it gave John time to wipe his eyes and clear his throat.

"So," Bernie then asked, "what made you slug a lieutenant?"

John pointed to the chair by the side of his bed.

"It's a long story. You might as well get comfortable."

Bernie peered at his brother for a moment then he moved around the bed and sat down.

"Okay, Johnnie," he said with a grin. "Tell me a story."

The demand brought back memories of the two of them in their beds, summer twilight darkening to night outside their window, the sounds of the TV and their parents talking downstairs almost drowned by the sounds of crickets and cicadas in the trees outside.

_Boy, do I have a epic story for you..._

John folded his hands in his lap and drew in a deep breath.

"It all started," he told his brother, "when Captain Cragen transferred in a Jewish homicide detective from Brooklyn..."


	41. A Part of the Main: Part One

The title of this chapter is from John Donne's Meditation 17: Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

"No man is an iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee..."

Brian and Monica: Brian Cassidy and Monica Jeffries, Munch's partners before Fin transferred to SVU.

The H & W Railroad is fictitious, but there are many similar railroads.

The O'Farrell matter: from the Law & Order season one episode "Blue Wall." Cragen's semi-coerced testimony against Chief of Operations Peter O'Farrell put the chief in prison. It's semi-canonical that Cragen's assistance ended his chance at promotion.

Hanan: Couch Sofarelli's wife

Audrey: Anita Van Buren's pothos (plant) mentioned in chapter 37, _So Good to Me_

_Cortale: Isadore Cortale, the lieutenant assuming Van Buren's command_

___...those cases we worked with Baltimore PD: __Law & Order and Homicide: Life on the Streets had three pairs of cross-over episodes: __ Charm City/For God and Country, Baby, It's You (parts one & two), and Sideshow (parts one & two). _

There is some foul language in this chapter.

The Tow Pound

Pier 76

17 August 2:37 a.m. (Tuesday)

Benson and Otten were the last two detectives to return to the squadroom that shift. There, they found Stabler waiting for them.

"Dan and Amanda headed home," Elliot told the two women, "with some lame excuse about needing sleep before the morning shift."

He paused for reaction to his joke. Olivia forced a smile.

_I'm too damn tired to laugh... and he better not mention McMullen's... the last thing I want right now is a bunch of cops congratulating us on what we did yesterday... what we did was almost lose Don, John, Fin and who knows how many others... we missed any sign that we were being cased by the Eshans and we failed to catch Beale... there's nothing for us to be proud of..._

"I sent Donna for beer," Elliot then continued, "and Couch and Chester on ahead. We're going to the Tow Pound."

The Manhattan Tow Impound for Midtown West, where cars waited to be reclaimed after being towed for parking violations, occupied a section of the old United States Line terminal on Pier 76. North of the impound, between the car yard and a tour boat dock, was a stretch of concrete used by the tour employees for parking. At night, it was a good place to gather away from curious civilian eyes.

_Elliot and his old partner Alphonse would go there when the cases got too rough to take straight home... when Alphonse retired, Elliot kept up the tradition... John said the spot reminded him of the good times in Baltimore before he saddled himself with a money-losing bar... when he and his friends from Homicide would gather by the harbor, drinking beer, and bullshitting the night away... we haven't gone to the Tow Pound in ages—not since before Judith and Couch transferred in... tonight, we definitely need to unwind, share info, and to process everything that has happened in the past two days..._

The other SVU detectives were at the railing overlooking the water when the three late-comers arrived. Donna pointed to the beer on the hood of her car and told them to help themselves. As she opened her can, Olivia asked Donna about John.

_She assured us that John was better and would be released later in the morning... we spent some time wondering how a loopier than usual Munch managed to avoid Bellevue's psych ward... Donna also told us what went down with John's pedophile... first time any of us had heard the full story... on a normal day, John's injuries would be our main concern but, thanks to the bomb and Don's shooting, he was shoved aside... I did call his room, but no one answered and I didn't get a chance to call back... I should have... Judith spoke up next... she told us how Joe got her a pass with the rats and that Balzano had left a suicide note explaining everything... she wasn't sure it would be released to the public, but she did know it exonerated Joe in the matter of the missing complaints... she also said he'd be reinstated later today... she then told us ADA Borgia had been fired... that gave me a chance to warn everyone against mentioning the possibility of Beale doing other victims..._

"So the official line," Couch then asked, "is Beale didn't start with small animals and weaker victims before stalking and raping Newman?"

Olivia saw Elliot nod in reply.

"If anyone asks your opinion," he told the younger man, "tell them Beale jumped from consensual partners straight to Newman then he went after Cap."

"Anyone know what Beale used to blackmail the First Dep?" Chester asked.

_Elliot, Judith, and me all shrugged in unison... we know better than to say anything... I think the brass might let everyone speculate on whether Beale raped Balzano and then used the attack as leverage... it's an awful thing to do to his family, but it beats letting everyone know his son was the real victim... the dead can't be hurt, but media scrutiny sure can do a number on the living..._

The conversation turned to the scope of Beale's scheme.

_We talked about how it all tied together—Beale and Cragen, Fontana and Beale, Beale and Balzano... and how only Don and Arthur Branch caught a piece of it... it certainly whizzed past Elliot and me... I said so and Judith told me to stop kicking myself... she reminded me how we're not omniscient, but damn—we're SVU... we're supposed to catch the predators, not be bamboozled by them... that's when Elliot raised his beer..._

"Here's to Deputy Inspector Donald Cragen," Elliot then said, "who's more of a cop than all of us put together."

_Our chorus of 'Here, here' and 'Damn right' served to end that conversation... after a few seconds, Judith asked about the attempted bombing..._

Chester told the group about the bomb squad's arrival and the crowd outside the precinct house, the people evacuated from the precinct and the nearby buildings who feared an explosion and those who were hoping to see one. Couch talked about the raid on Eshan's business and the finding of the other bombs. Elliot described how he came out of the men's room and saw Fin struggling with Faizullah Eshan.

_But that's all Elliot told us... we watched his face go cold as he crushed his empty can and threw it into the river... he then turned away from us as though he needed to watch it float downstream... I know Elliot would never have let that bomb explode, but I also know he'd rather have saved that kid... none of us said 'I'm glad you blew the kid's brains out' because we know how it rips you up inside to drop someone... after a long, awkward time—time Elliot spent staring at the water and we spent staring at his back, Donna started talking... she said she had an uncle who was a retired train engineer and how he spent his weekends driving tourist excursions for the the H & W Railroad in West Virginia... we turned from Elliot to stare at her—why in hell should we care about her uncle? Our glares didn't faze her... she just kept yammering about her uncle and some excursion he was driving, going slow so the tourists on-board could admire the scenery and so people by the tracks could take picture of the steam engine... I was about to tell Donna to shut up when she said her uncle spotted a man by the tracks who wasn't holding a camera... she said the man looked right at her uncle up in the cab of the engine then he stepped onto the tracks in front of the train.. there was no way her uncle could stop in time... the wheels ran over him, cutting him in half... Donna said her uncle was mad as hell at that man and how he'd forced her uncle to help him commit suicide... how her uncle had no say in the matter... that's when I saw Elliot's head start nodding... with his back still toward us, he said ''That kid was pounding Fin, head and gut, trying to make him let go. Even when he saw my weapon aimed at him, he didn't stop. He didn't want help. He wanted us dead.' That's when Elliot turned around... he had a smile on his face like he appreciated Donna's effort to empathize then he said, 'I had a choice—die or kill him. It's more than your uncle got, but not by much.' I actually snickered at that—shows how much I need a good laugh... _

The conversation turned then to less weighty but still important subjects: the new CO and what Van Buren would be like, who should pack up Cragen's office before she moved in, and Couch's forthcoming promotion and his certain failure as a sergeant, the gentle jibes of that last topic borne with good humor by the sergeant-to-be. When the kidding ran its course, good-nights were said then Couch and Donna drove to their homes while Judith and Chester headed for Brooklyn, driven by the Praesidium operative still guarding Judith.

Olivia remained at the railing, forearms resting on it with her hands clasped before her, her gaze focused on the lights across the river. Elliot faced the street, his back braced against the railing, his arms folded across his chest. Neither found reason to speak so the sounds of the city filled the silence between them until an angry voice slurring his syllables cut through the noise.

"That's my car, you mother-fucking two-balled bitch!"

Neither of them moved although Elliot said, "Someone has his anatomy mixed up."

Olivia chuckled.

"Either that or the clerk's a tranny."

"Could be," Elliot replied. "I hope it stops at yelling. I don't feel like responding right now."

"Me neither."

Both detectives listened for signs of escalation. When none were heard, they settled back into their comfortable silence.

_Too tired to want to move... and going home seems less like the end of today and more like the beginning of tomorrow... and, since it's Tuesday already, I guess it is..._

Next to Olivia, Elliot opened his mouth and yawned. As she copied the breath, he said, "It's been hell."

"Yeah," she agreed. "That's why coming here was a good idea."

"It was. We should have done this after that clusterfuck with Sullivan. If we'd gotten together and killed a couple six-packs, things wouldn't have blown up like they did."

Olivia considered the notion.

"Maybe," she replied, "John and Judith might have sorted things out between them, but midnight beer wouldn't have stopped Eshan's revenge or John's injury, and it definitely wouldn't have kept Don safe or Balzano alive."

She saw Elliot's head jerk from side to side as though denying the idea.

"It might have," he told her, "if we'd been working together the way we're supposed to."

"So you're kicking yourself too, huh?" she asked.

"Damn right, I am."

He turned around and matched her position at the railing, giving the base of the rail a kick as he did so.

"It could have been worse," he said. "We should be thankful."

Olivia stared at the dark water lapping the seawall below her.

_I am... I'm sorry about the First Dep and his family and the other victims... but the rest of us—the one I care about... I am so very, very glad about them..._

"Yes," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Hell, yes."

Elliot's soft chuckle told her he understood.

_Candles and prayers just aren't me... but the gratitude is no less because of that..._

He then straightened and stretched, his joints cracking loud enough for Olivia to hear.

"You ready to call it a night?" he asked.

Olivia reached into her pocket for her keys.

"More than ready."

_Assuming the morning doesn't bring us more any crap..._

Hospital Room of Donald Cragen  
Kings County Hospital, Brooklyn, NY  
17 August 7:17 a.m.

_I spent a lot of time awake last night... I couldn't stop thinking about Balzano... I tried to be logical—after all, what Beale did to his son would make any father act irrationally... but that doesn't explain why Balzano didn't have Beale tracked down and arrested... instead, he caved in to Beale's demands... he forgot he had the entire department at his command... I know he hated me—Tullia as much as said so yesterday... did he also hate Fontana? Did he see this as the only way to keep his son's rape a secret or was it also a shot at guilt-free revenge—if he got caught, he could claim Beale made him do it and maybe get away with it... but, if so, why drown himself? I'm mad as hell at him, but it doesn't stop me from sympathizing... a little... without any answers, I just couldn't find any sleep..._

Don's thoughts weren't calmed by his first visitor that Tuesday morning.

_Commissioner Richardson arrived even before my morning nurse check... after he asked how I was doing, he asked how much I knew about Beale and Balzano... I told him what I knew then he filled me in on how Branch had uncovered the blackmail method by linking Fontana and Beale..._

Prompted by that knowledge, Don recalled the afternoon in his office when Beale had mistaken Fontana for an SVU detective.

_I corrected him... told him Fontana's name and assignment... which means I'm the one who gave Beale the info he needed to force Balzano to take Fontana out—like I need another reason to kick myself... the commissioner also told me how McCoy had fired his ADA for breaking confidence about this matter... and how the only thing that kept Judith from the same fate was Fontana... man—I've seen plates of spaghetti with fewer tangles... next came the real reason for Richardson's visit..._

"I've told you all this so you'll understand why you must keep the existence of Beale's other victims and what he used to blackmail Tony in the strictest confidence."

_I know an order when I hear it... fine, I'll help protect the First Dep's reputation, but only for the sake of his son and the other victims... and I'm happy to hear how his widow wants a simple, private funeral... keeps me and Fontana from jockeying for position so we can piss on his casket right there before the altar—bishop and brass be damned... I wonder how much Richardson had to do with her decision..._

The commissioner ended his visit by commending Don on his excellent police work.

_What was I supposed to do—ignore my gut and let myself get ass-raped? That's what Balzano set me up for... Beale may have used him, but he was a willing tool... I told the commissioner that... to my surprise, Richardson didn't disagree._

"I know more about this that you do," he had told Don, "or will know, even with Tony's sister as your informant."

A weary smile showed Richardson meant that as a joke. Don did not return the smile.

"I'm threading a half-dozen needles here," he continued. "I need to protect a dozen young men who don't need media ghouls destroying their lives. I need to honor the memory of a man who served the NYPD with distinct for most of his career. I need to deal with the results of the dishonorable actions of that same man. I need to keep forward momentum on the reorganization because this department needs its best and brightest if we're to keep this city safe. I need to make certain the operations run yesterday will prevent further attacks, and I need to ensure that you and your detectives get the care you need."

A yawn muffled his last words. Richardson covered his mouth and yawned again then he said, "What I mean is that, as much as you and others may want to hear it, there are good reasons for me to refrain from publicly slamming Tony. The official line is that he was a good and decent man who fell victim to Andrew Beale."

The commissioner stressed the word "victim" then he peered at Don as though concerned about how he would react. Don went cold as the implications sank in.

_He's going to let everyone think Beale did Balzano... oh, that's good—that's damn good..._

His glee at the thought soured as his stomach knotted, and he had to swallow hard against the nausea gripping him.

_No, it's not... no one deserves that sort of lie... and I shouldn't be happy about it... except Balzano gave that order to the Six-Two..._

"Tony's beyond punishment," Richardson continued, "for what he did to Fontana and for his complicity with Beale against you, but he can be used to protect the innocent. It's a shitty thing to do to a man whose skills and experience I valued, but sometimes, the crap-covered path is the only one available. You take care. I'll be back later this week, and we'll talk again."

After the commissioner left, Don thought through the commissioner's words.

_But I still keep coming back to the mental picture of Balzano holding photos of his son and Beale while telling the Six-Two to ignore requests for drive-bys at my house... I can't forgive that... I can't..._

After his wife left for work, Couch Sofarelli ran through his morning work-out and routine. He then headed for Kings County Hospital.

_Even if the captain isn't seeing visitors, I can leave word I was there... I wanted to go by yesterday, but Olivia suggested everyone wait until today... watch—we'll all show up at once and we'll be hip-deep in detectives... maybe someone will bring doughnuts..._

There were no doughnuts in Cragen's room, only the standard monitoring equipment quietly recording their data. Cragen was in a green hospital gown on the bed. His eyes were closed and his face was slack. When Couch called out from the door, the captain's eyes opened then he waved the younger man into the room. Couch ran through the usual questions:

_How was he doing? Anything I can do to help? Any word on how long before the doctors let him go home? _

"Friday," Cragen replied. "Although I'm heading for my sister's. I'll need some help getting around for a while, and I'm certain they sealed my place as a crime scene."

"Hanan suggested I offer to get things cleaned up for you once it's unsealed," Couch said. "Elliot said he knows a good source for cabinets and I can handle drywall repairs. We can get things right—"

The captain smiled at the suggestion, but he also shook his head.

"I appreciate that, son, but I'd rather have the entire kitchen ripped out and redone. Better that than me drinking my morning coffee and wondering which spot is a repaired bullet hole and who fired it."

Before Couch could decide whether it was safe to laugh at that or not, Cragen said, "I got the promotion news. Congratulations, Sergeant."

Try as he might, Couch could not keep from grinning.

"Thank you, sir. Congratulations on you getting the One-Six."

Cragen's response was a rueful smile.

_Probably thinking how he's going to miss the ceremony... not take command until the rest of us are settled in... it must burn to finally advance and then have to wait for it like this..._

"I should also congratulate you on the Eshan raids," Cragen then said. "I hear that was good work."

Hearing Eshan's name shattered Couch's good mood.

_Maybe it was good work—after all, none of those four bombs exploded... but that means Sergeant Valeri had the right of it when he said we were being spied on..._

"It was, sir," Couch admitted, "but it shouldn't have come down to that. I'm the one who said no one was checking out the precinct. It turned out I was wrong."

_Seeing Eshan's name in that wallet... realizing who he was and why he was there... trying to act as calm as everyone else was acting... last night, I learned Elliot was as scared as I was... knowing that really helped..._

Cragen's voice interrupted Couch's thoughts.

"Which means you got to learn a cheap lesson instead of an expensive one. Be grateful for that."

Couch nodded emphatically.

"Yes, sir. I know that."

_And I sure hope it's the last mistake like this I ever make..._

Sofarelli's visit was cut short by a nurse and an orderly, who asked him to leave so they could work with Cragen.

_The nurse said it was time for me to try standing up... the orderly was there to catch me if she was wrong... I'm so full of painkillers, getting to my feet didn't hurt that much... if standing is successful, then the next step, according to the nurse, is walking, then peeing, which means they'll take out the catheter and the nasal tube... that means real food in the near future..._

Don was teetering on his feet, the orderly standing besides him, the nurse making sure all his tubes didn't kink or stretch, when a voice boomed from the hallway.

"You making a break for it, Captain?"

_It was Branch... he waited in the hall until I was tucked back into bed then he came over to my side and apologized for not figuring out what Beale was up to sooner... he said he felt personally responsible for me getting shot... I sincerely doubt he means it—he's too much of a politician to admit his mistakes where anyone can hear him, but it sure felt good hearing him say it... Branch didn't stay long after that—said he had to get some work done before meeting with the commissioner to settle with Fontana... I didn't ask, but I'll bet that didn't come cheap..._

A succession of visitors followed the DA. Some of them Don had not seen in months.

_They had written me off as a hopeless loser... now that I made deputy inspector, they're hoping I've got a hook that they can ride... I'd say 'Screw them' but you never know who I might be reporting to in the future... it might be one of them..._

Others, like his people, his priest, and friends, wanted nothing more than to make sure he was okay.

_Knowing they were worried—no, that they were scared about me... that feels pretty damn great..._

However, the one person Don most wanted to see that day did not come to see him.

_I wonder where Tullia is? Is she okay?_

Office of Captain D. Cragen  
17 August 11:47 a.m.

_This room is easily three times the size of my office... I don't have to share it, either... judging from those empty boxes stacked on the credenza, someone's planning to pack Don's things for him... I'm not worried about that... even if his things stay for a while, there's still plenty of room for the little I'm bringing with me... I don't get an outside window here... Audrey will have to settle for a grow light... and I'm moving that computer screen to my desk... I never got my requisition for a computer—had to do all my work on paper... so I'm putting that computer right where I can use the hell out of it..._

Anita Van Buren swiveled the chair one more time as she noted the comparative luxury of Cragen's paneled office...

_So much nicer than that institutional green paint I had..._

… then she addressed the stack of personnel files before her on the desk.

_Detective Brewster let me in... I stopped Kings County and saw Don earlier... he had no problem with me scoping his office out and looking over his files... we spent a few minutes discussing SVU, but his nurse needed to check something so I had to leave... what with the ceremony tomorrow and me taking command at oh-eight hundred Thursday, I won't get another chance to talk with him until Friday... that's why I'm here—to see what kind of people I've got work with... _

Van Buren read through fifteen of the sixteen records.

_Dan Womack is rotating off the unit... moving to Auto Theft... I'm getting Reina Venter, a sergeant from the Warrants Section... don't have her jacket yet, but Brewster says she's got two years at rank... she'll go to the current day shift, taking Brewster's place as lead, while Sofarelli—_

She opened his file.

—_gets his stripes and will stay on his current shift, taking Benson's place... Don put a note in his file...'Call him Couch—don't use Al or Alphonse.'_

Anita smiled.

_Man must really hate the name his mama gave him..._

_As she read the files, Van Buren noted_ each detective's history, experience, and skills.

_Don didn't get a chance to fill me in on the things that don't make it into their files... I'm meeting with __Cortale at forty-thirty today to tell him about my people... how Ed's a vegetarian and Cassady's so green she squeaks... I should warn him about Fontana, too... Ed said something last night about him being cleared—no details but, if it's true, Cortale should know about him... his arrogant selfishness, his smug attitude, his refusal to sully his hand-tailored suits—I could go on... and on... and on... _

_Anita shook her head over Fontana's long list of foibles then she returned to her reading. When she had finished with the current day shift, she addressed the remaining eight folders._

___Don told me he'd made a big mistake by shaking up some of the partner assignments on this shift... he suggested I consider redoing them... nice of him to make it a suggestion—come Thursday, they're my people... but, long as I'm here, it won't hurt to take a look... I got Stabler and Benson—Don said they were okay... Munch and Loudoun—I remember Munch from those cases we worked with Baltimore PD... him and Lennie sure were two of a kind... and there's Otten and Lake... and Tutuola and Sofarelli—_

_Anita said the last two names aloud._

___Talk about a tongue twister... I'm not risking saying that again... let's find these two ____partners with easy names to pronounce... let's see... I got Munch and I got Lake—don't get much easier than one syllable... Tutuola can have Munch... that leaves Loudoun... I can't put her with Sofarelli—she's a recent transfer and Sofarelli will be too busy learning the ropes as sergeant..._

_She picked up Lake's and his partner's files, comparing the two of them to Loudoun as she sought the best fit._

___You won't get me to admit it out loud, but I really hate pairing two women together... we girls have our ____strengths and skills, but there's something to be said for male muscles when things get down and dirty... so, Otten and Loudoun is out... that means Lake gets Loudoun... and Otten gets Sofarelli... and my tongue stays untied... now, let's see about SVU's stats and then its budget..._


	42. A Part of the Main: Part Two

Uncle Andrew, Aunt Katalin, Uncle Morrie, etc: all Munch relatives. Of this group, only Cousin Lee, Uncle Andrew, Munch's parents, and Bernie are canonical. The rest were created for my stories.

Meldrick and Tim: Meldrick Lewis and Tim Bayliss, the two Baltimore Homicide detectives who owned the Waterfront Bar with Munch

_Law & Order: SVU_ rewrote some of Munch's family history as it had been given on _Homicide: Life on the Streets_. Episode "Legacy" has Munch telling Benson he grew up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and, in the episode "Manhunt," Munch tells Fin he once worked at the Two Cousins Fish Market in Freeport, NY. My stories try to tie all the odd bits of the two canons together although the story of Munch's mother is part of this Alternate Universe.

Crackerbox: Fin talked about his apartment in the L&O:SVU episode "Manhunt"

Kwasi:the name Fin gave his son at birth. His son later changed his first name to Ken and took his mother Teresa's maiden name of Randall.

Station codes: the name for the second three digits in a ten-digit phone number, area code being the name for the first three digits

Franklin Parks, Willie Seaver (a.k.a. Odogwu Okori,) and the Black Panther Party: Parks and Seaver are fictional. Fin's parents being members of the BPP is canon because Ice-T said so in an interview. The facts about the Black Panthers and their programs are true, but they are filtered through the experiences of the characters. My version of Fin's background is not canonical.

Since the departure point for the SVU alternate universe is the episode "Raw," Darius Parker (episodes "Screwed" and "Venom") does not exist in Fin's life, and Munch's Uncle Andrew has no mental issues.

"... Annie May Seacliff escape from Clinton:" a fictional person, but she's based on JoAnne Chesimard (a.k.a. Assata Shakur,) a member of the Black Liberation Army who was convicted of several violent crimes including the murder of a police officer. She escaped from Clinton Correctional Facility for Women with the help of three other BLA members and is still on the FBI's Most Wanted Domestic Terrorist List.

_Expropriations:_ a euphemism for stealing money from banks

J. Edgar: J. Edgar Hoover, director of the FBI until his death in 1972

Characters curse in this chapter.

Parking Garage  
340 W. Thirty-first Street  
17 August 11:58 a.m.

Bernie Munch had taken a cab to his brother's place after the nurses finally kicked him out of John's hospital room Monday night. He returned the next day with Connie Walker to, as John put it, "spring me from this pseudo-antiseptic MRSA pit and take me to a decent breakfast." To that end, the three went to a diner near Penn Station, where the brothers had omelets and tea while Connie contented herself with coffee.

Afterward, they had gone to the train station, where Bernie asked both John and Connie to come down the weekend after Labor Day for a visit.

_Connie wrapped her arm around my waist and said, 'Of course we'll be there' so I guess we'll be there... all I did was grin... so did Bernie... damn, it felt good to see him—talk to him... even if he did borrow a pair of my shorts, some socks, and a shirt... that's what brothers do—share things... things like toys, bedrooms, and crappy childhoods... _

After Bernie's train had left Penn Station, John and Connie walked to the parking garage on West Thirty-First, pausing a few times to let John rest.

_My head still hurts and sometimes I get dizzy... supposedly, this will go away in a few days... the doctors said no physical exertion for a week, but I can ride a desk starting tomorrow..._

They took an elevator to the garage level where Connie had left the unmarked Taurus she had checked out for the errand.

_I have enough trouble getting in and out of that sports car of hers... I'm glad she didn't try shoe-horning both me and Bernie into it..._

When they arrived at the parked car, John went to the passenger side but, instead of unlocking the car for him, Connie paused by the driver's door to give John a long, searching look.

"I should tell you," she said, "that I had breakfast earlier today with your brother. He told me about your family."

John winced.

_Oh, shit... not our entire family..._

"Uncle Andrew?" he asked. "Aunt Katalin?"

She nodded.

"And your Uncle Sid, Uncle Morrie and your aunt Sadie, Cousin Lee who screwed up your taxes..."

John turned from her gaze to stare through the metal grate that screened the parking level.

_No way to jump through that mesh... and cousin Lee didn't just screw up my taxes—he cost Meldrick, Tim, and me a good thirty thou... nice view of the railroad yard and the post office's A/C units... maybe Bernie took so long telling her about our cousins that he never got to our—_

"... and your mom and dad. John, why didn't you tell me about them?"

The concern in Connie's voice tightened John's throat, but he kept his attention on the roof of the Farley Post Office.

"What's to tell?" he replied with a shrug to show how little it mattered.

_Our dad blew his brains out then our mom went from ditzy and over-protective to overbearing and mean. After Dad's death, we stayed in Pikesville, but every year, as soon as school was out, she'd send Bernie and me to New York to stay with one of her sisters. She called it her summer vacation from motherhood... it wasn't all bad... living part-time in Manhattan gave me a real cosmopolitan flair compared to my friends... but, seeing how much my mother had deteriorated while we were gone each summer—that was scary..._

John heard footsteps come around the rear of the Taurus.

_Connie has a happy home life—even her divorce was reasonably amicable... I'd rather join her family than inflict mine on her—Bernie, of course, excepted..._

From the corner of his eye, John saw Connie stop beside him. She glanced through the mesh at the skyline then she turned to face him.

"Bernie said you and your mom fought a bit."

John's sarcastic laugh echoed through the garage.

"A bit? More like all day, every day. She didn't like my friends, my clothes, the way I made my bed, my music, my grades, my choice of work...

… _or lack there of..._

"If it wasn't for our uncles and aunts, I don't know what Bernie and I would have done. They'd take us in when Mom was on a tear or when we needed a meal with people who didn't think cooking meant throwing TV dinners at us. Uncle Sid hired Bernie as a mortuary assistant when he turned sixteen, and Uncle Morrie had a job waiting for me every summer at the Fish Market."

He saw Connie nod as though Bernie had already told her about the jobs.

"Uncle Andrew kept an eye on Mom after we moved out—not that she wanted any help from Dad's side of the family but, given the way she was popping pills and drinking, someone had to check on her."

_Cirrhosis finally got her... she died while I was at the police academy in Baltimore... not that my success mattered to her by then... between the Librium and sleeping pill abuse, and the alcohol, she was too far gone to notice..._

John paused, his thoughts on his academy graduation, his brother and his aunts and uncles in attendance, his mother newly buried.

_And I was a selfish bastard that day... paying more attention to my girlfriend than to them... story of my life—chasing after people who don't give a damn and ignoring those who care enough to have my back when I need them..._

Next to him, Connie nodded again.

"That's why the saying goes 'Partners are like blood,'" she said. "'Blood' as in blood relatives, the ones who stand by you when everyone else finds other places to be."

_Like Bernie dropping everything to come up here even though we haven't talked in years... we talked at lot last night... I told him how I almost got myself canned... he told me Louise went through a bout of depression after her youngest got married... because of Mom, the thought of his wife on anti-depressants scared Bernie, but they really helped Louise get through it... I told how Fin blew up at me over that photo of Otten... and I told him how hard it hit me when I learned Fin could have died on Sunday without me clearing the air between us... Bernie said I should try again... maybe his near-miss shook Fin up enough to convince him to let me explain..._

John drew in a deep breath and let it out again.

_It's time I listened to my little brother..._

"Connie," he said, his gaze still fixed on the roof of the Post Office, "mind driving me to Brooklyn?"

"Brooklyn? I thought you wanted to go home."

"There's something I need to do first," he told her.

_Assuming it doesn't land me on Bernie's embalming table... given that Fin's involved, there's always that possibility..._

Residence of Odafin Tutuola  
64 Cumberland Street, Brooklyn  
17 August 12:43 p.m.

Whenever Fin Tutuola described his apartment as a "crackerbox," he was not exaggerating.

_Six hundred square feet... it's not rent-controlled, neither... but the window A/Cs work … the door's solid and the window locks are top-shelf... there's a deli right down the street, and it ain't too loud at night—neighbors are the quiet sort..._

Over the years since he had left his wife and son, Fin had made the place his home.

_My finances improved after Kwasi graduated...I'm proud he got his bachelor's, but I'm happier not paying his tuition... got my sound system sounding real sweet... bought a new sofa and a flat-screen... watching the Knicks now is almost as good as court-side seats..._

Fin was sitting on his sofa, a bed pillow hugged against his chest, while he did his prescribed breathing exercises. He had his TV tuned to a nature show as a distraction from the pain.

_I'm glad I'm not a preying mantis... Teresa chewed me out plenty, but she never bit my head off—not for real..._

… when his phone rang.

_Check the number... I got the area and station codes for the news stations and the papers memorized... them I don't answer... same with out-of-state calls if I don't know the number..._

He let the call go to voice-mail.

_813 is Florida... don't know anyone there..._

With the phone set back on the cushion next to him, Fin drew in another deep breath.

_Damn, that hurts... good thing I only have to do five of these at a time..._

His last breathe coincided with a knock on his door. Fin dropped the bed pillow and got to his feet to check his peephole.

_Better be someone I want to see..._

The view through the door's scope showed the upper half of John Munch in profile. He was dressed in a long-sleeved black T-shirt; a gauze bandage covered the left side of his head behind his ear.

_He's looking down the hall at the stairs... maybe he's looking at whoever brought him... that whoever can take him home again... I ain't opening my door to him..._

Fin stepped back from the door just as Munch knocked again.

_He'll start whining at me to open up... he must think that bandage gets him another chance... ain't no way—he tried to blab my secrets... no one got a right to do that..._

Fin scowled at the though of being forced to listen to his ex-partner's pleading through his door.

_Man's got no shame coming here... and he's not making any noise—no calling my name, no begging... maybe he gave up and left..._

He took another peek through the peephole. Munch was still there. His right arm was raised, but he seemed to be using it to support his weight. His shoulders were slumped and his gaze unfocused, his expression slack.

_He looks disappointed... and there's the whoever he was looking at... fine looking woman... must be that Sergeant Walker Howie said was watching over him at the hospital—the one Loudoun called instead of one of us... not that we had anyone to spare right then... damn fool picked a crappy time to bump his head... Howie said he was out for almost thirty minutes... that's never good..._

Fin watched the woman place a hand on John's shoulder.

_She asked if he wanted to try again.. he's shaking his head... they're turning away... they're leaving... why'd he come here when he has her to go home with? _

He pondered that question.

_He came here instead of going home... to apologize? Wouldn't mind hearing that out of Munch's mouth... and it's listen or go back to the head-eating bugs..._

Fin quickly undid the locks and opened his door. Both Munch and the woman spun on their heels to stare at him.

"Took me time to get to the door," he told them. "Ain't moving too quick right now."

_Munch just thought about bolting—weight on toes and shifting in the direction of the stairs then he settled bank on his heels...he's staying put to face me... the woman moved back a few feet... giving us some room... she's packing—waist carry on her left... her shirt hangs funny there... and she's watching me—don't need to... I can slam the door shut any time I want... so I might as well get this over with..._

"What you want?" he asked.

Munch's mouth worked as though his lips were sorting through his vocabulary. Fin raised his head and scowled at him

_Don't take all day..._

Finally, the older man's face stopped twitching and he said, "Fin, I came here to say I'm sorry."

Fin held his scowl, but vindication brought by those words warmed him to his bones.

_About time you said so..._

" That photo was a stupid, childish prank..."

_It wasn't a prank—that photo was a strike against everything I've made of my life... you knew that... you had to know... _

"...and I shouldn't have said what I said to you in the men's room. That was wrong, too."

Munch then blinked a few times and the corner of his mouth twitched upward into a hopeful smile. Fin carefully examined the older man's expression, stance, and bearing.

_He thinks that ends this... the hell it does..._

"That ain't enough," he said. "I got to know why you did me that way."

Fin saw the hopeful smile sag. Munch gaped at him for a moment then his face went flush with anger.

"You?" he shot back. "Who said anything about you? I was going to embarrass Otten with a photo of her and the Black Power twins. You're the one who marched in and grabbed my book—no explanations, no reasons. How the hell am I supposed to know—"

Fin felt his jaw drop.

_Otten?_

He thought back to the photo while Munch continued to rant.

_Girl, mid-teens... long hair—photo was black-and-white so the color's hard to tell... dressed in a skirt and blouse like for church or a party... could be any of millions of women Judith's age..._

"—reading minds is not one of my talents, so how could I—"

"That photo—that was Judith?"

Fin's question cut off the older man's flow of words. Munch leaned back as though surprised by the interruption then he peered over his dark lenses at Fin.

"Of course it was," he replied. "Are you saying we all look alike to you?"

Fin stiffened at the slam, but confusion kept him from answering back.

_I gotta see that picture... see if it is Judith... or if Munch is pulling something on me... don't know why he would, excepting that's who Munch is..._

Fin turned to the woman, who was regarding Fin with concern.

"My apologies," he said to her, "but I need to work this out. Could you...?"

He let the question trail off in the hope she would volunteer to go away. The woman gave him a long, searching look...

_No, I ain't carrying..._

...then she turned to Munch.

"Is that okay with you?" she asked.

When Munch nodded, she said, "I'll be in the car. Call me when—"

Fin nodded in unison with Munch.

_Just leave... I got to get to the bottom of this..._

To Fin's relief, the woman left without any more fuss while Munch shifted on his feet as though ready to be invited in. Fin held his position—one hand on the door, the other on its frame, and made no move to open it wider. When the woman was out of sight on the stairs, Fin caught Munch's gaze.

_Won't hurt him to stay in the hall... besides, if he's lying, he's not welcome..._

"You wait here," Fin told Munch then he shut and locked his door.

John made himself as comfortable as possible against the wall opposite Fin's door.

_I know what happens next... he opens my book... finds that photo—rather, its original... I cropped out Otten's parents and the caption telling who they are... he'll say something off-color... then he'll come out here and mumble about me being right and him being wrong... what I don't know is if he'll explain why that photo upset him..._

He ran through the possibilities.

_One of the men in the photo is a hero of his—except Fin isn't a fan of the Black Panthers... he once said his parents were members and the group did some good, but he didn't agree with their revolutionary platform or their violence... maybe he was angry at me for using Howie's scanner—but that doesn't explain his reaction to Otten's photo... I can't believe he didn't recognize her—she's wearing the same blank expression she always uses when she wants to hide what she's thinking..._

John shifted his position to take some weight off his left leg.

_He could have offered me a chair while I'm waiting... maybe it's not the people in the photo... maybe Fin believes in the sanctity of copyrights and his outrage stems from my altering an image I don't own—yeah, right... might as well say it was Fin's time of the month..._

Before John could come with another reason, Fin's door opened again. He stood there, his left hand griping the door, his right holding John's copy of _Marguerite Geistner: Collected Works._

"I checked this book of yours," he said, the words strained through clenched teeth. "You really were gunning for Judith with that picture."

John kept his place against the wall as he carefully nodded his head.

"Just another part of my nefarious plan to drive her out of the unit."

_Now, Fin will say something about me pulling that stunt out of my bony ass... at least, I hope he will... if we're good, he will..._

"You don't know who's standing there with Judith and her folks."

Although Fin stated it as fact, John shook his head.

"Not a clue, Fin. Is it important?"

"No, it ain't."

John bit back his exasperation.

_If it's not important, then why did you jump all over me and dump me for Olivia? Why?_

Across the hall, Fin's scowl sagged into a sick smile. His shoulders hunched as though he feared what might come next.

"Any chance you'll leave and never talk about this again?" he asked.

John stiffened at the anxiousness in Fin's voice.

_Fin never begs... but he is now... whatever this is, it's worth him giving up his dignity... can I live with never knowing what happened?_

It took barely an instant for John to decide.

_Hell, yes..._

He stopped leaning against the wall and squared his stance so he could look Fin straight in his eyes.

"You have my word," he promised. "I'll never mention this again."

_Although I can still call Otten... not say anything about Fin... simply ask if she remembers going to a fundraiser with her parents sometime about 1967 or '68... or I could ask her father next time I play chess with him... as long as I don't say anything about it to Fin, I should be fine..._

Across the hall, Fin's expression brightened, but then John saw his eyes narrow with suspicion.

"Shit, John—I know you. The second you hit the sidewalk, you'll be on the phone to Judith, asking if she remembers that night."

He then opened his door wide and waved John inside.

"I'm safer telling you myself."

John tried hard not to look busted as he walked past Fin and into his apartment.

_Guess I should work on my poker face... only been here a couple of times—we stopped by so Fin could pick up a change of clothes once while working a case... another time, he forgot his checkbook and needed to pay Ken's college tuition... he's got some damn fine audio gear... those speakers look custom-made..._

While John was drooling on Fin's speakers, Fin had opened the Geistner book to the photo of Judith and her parents. He held it out for John to see.

"That man on the left," he told John, "is Franklin Parks. He was with the Oakland chapter of the Black Panthers. He'd come to New York to convince a bunch of rich liberals to give the Party money for its social programs."

_I knew a couple of the Baltimore Panthers from back in my street protest days... they were into social justice for the people in East Balto... they protested police brutality and housing discrimination—sometimes alongside my comrades... they worked to raise political awareness in their communities... they ran free health clinics and provided free breakfasts and lunches to kids... _

John pointed to the second African-American in the photo.

"You told me once your parents were Panthers. Is that your father?"

_Although that wouldn't explain your actions... the few times you've mentioned them, you seemed to like your parents..._

Fin quickly shook his head as though horrified at the thought.

"My dad didn't hold with begging money from rich people. He thought the Party should fund its programs itself—selling the BPP papers, having block parties, asking people to pay what they could when they could. He believed freedom only came when people did for themselves. 'Better we stand on our own two feet,' he'd say, 'than lean on the capitalists.'"

Fin's gaze dropped back to the photo, and his upper lip curled in disgust.

"That piece of crap," he told John, "is Willie Seaver, my mother's youngest brother. You probably know him under his alias, Odogwu Okori."

Shock at the name impelled John to his feet.

"The one who shot the two detectives in the Bronx in 1971?" he asked, his hands emphasizing his words. "The one who killed a customer and two tellers at some bank in Staten Island a year later? The one who helped Annie May Seacliff escape from Clinton in 1974 and then went out in a blaze of gunfire, taking three state troopers with him—that Odogwu Okori?"

Fin glared at John, his eyes never leaving him despite his hand-waving histrionics.

"Yeah," he replied. "That one. We don't talk about him much."

John sank back onto the sofa.

_I can see why..._

"Damn," he said aloud, "I was a rookie when he made the Feeb's Ten Most Wanted. I remember reading his poster and thinking, 'I don't ever want to meet up with this dude.'"

Fin grunted a laugh.

"You were one smart rookie. Uncle Willie was bad from birth and got worse the bigger he grew. When he was fifteen, he broke my mother's arm and knocked out three of her teeth for not making him a sandwich. My Grampy put a shotgun to his head and told him to get the hell out.

"That was in 1959, the year my parents met and three years before I came along. I don't know where Willie went, but he came back when I was five or so—around the time this picture was taken."

Fin tapped the photo.

"By then, he had changed his name to Okori, and he was swearing he'd changed his tune, too. Now, he claimed to be all about fighting for black people's rights. He got a job in a machine shop in Hunts Point, and he started attending meetings. I know Dad warned the chapter about him, but most of the Panthers liked the idea of having a good street fighter on the team, especially the way the cops was hassling them. Dad kept Willie away from his family, but I heard my parents talk about him pushing the chapter to be more confrontational."

John nodded to show he knew what Fin meant.

_The BPP finally broke up over that issue—were they reformers or revolutionaries? The hard-core revolutionaries went on to found the Black Liberation Army, the reformers joined various local groups or their chapters became local activist groups... I can see why Uncle Willie went revolutionary... expropriation and murder being more up his alley... _

'Okay," John said, "so you're related to a sociopathic cop-killer. It doesn't seem to have hurt your career any so what's the—"

The long _hiss_ of breath from Fin sounded as though he might boil over.

"Munch," he snarled, "how about waiting for the end of the story before you jump to conclusions?"

John held up his hands, palms out in surrender.

"Sorry," he said. "I thought you were finished."

"Wish that was it," Fin replied, "but it ain't. One night, right before I turned nine, Dad came home from work so late, we were already eating supper. He ignored my brother and me, grabbed my mom by the arm, and told her they had to talk. They went in their bedroom while Bólají and me sat at the table, our food getting cold, trying to hear what they was saying, but all we could make out was they was both mad at something.

"After a while, Mom came out. Her mouth was all pushed together the way it got when she was real angry. She told my brother and me to pack some clothes and our school books 'cause we had to go to Grampy and Grammy's house for a few days. I could hear Dad opening and closing drawers like he was packing their clothes, too. Bólají and me, we did like we were told then Mom handed me an envelope and told me to take my brother and go. She said she and Dad would be along in a little bit."

John saw Fin's eyes go dark and his features slack.

"I didn't see them again for almost three years. Bólají and me stayed with our grandparents the whole time. No one talked about why we was there or where our folks was. We went to school, and church, and played with our friends and our cousins, and no one said a word about nothing. Then, one Sunday, my mom came by after church and took Bólají and me to a apartment a couple blocks from where we'd lived before. Dad was there and everything was back to normal—close as it could be, at least."

"Wow," John said, aware that the word didn't cover the situation, "and this had to do with your uncle?"

"Yeah. Earlier that day, two detectives from the Four-One, Kevin O'Malley and Steven Jergen, had gone to the machine shop where Willie worked. It was lunch time and he was the only one around. The detectives were canvassing, asking questions about a string of liquor store robberies in the neighborhood. Near as anyone could tell, Willie had nothing to do with the robberies, but he took out the detectives anyway then hid their bodies behind a pile of scrap metal behind the shop. After that, he high-tailed it for the delivery company where my Dad worked. He asked Dad to give him a ride to wherever his next run took him. My Dad refused so Willie pulled a gun and forced him to take him along. Dad's run was to Elizabethport over in Jersey. He let Willie out by the turnpike after Willie took all the money in his wallet.

"I learned that part a lot later. I also learned Willie had spent the run threatening to implicate my father in the shooting just for grins and shit. He said the cops would believe him because they hated the Panthers, and because Hoover and the FBI were paying bounties on members. He scared my Dad so bad, he decided to hide instead of facing the police."

"I can't blame him," John said. "Between J. Edgar's vendetta against anyone who spoke against authority, and the understandable prejudice against cop-killers, I doubt the NYPD would have listened to your father's side of anything."

___Best he could hope for would be a very physical 'tune-up' in a back room... worst would be an 'accidental' fall down a flight of stairs—maybe fatal, maybe not... the department is still living down the reputation it earned during those dark days..._

Fin nodded.

"That's why Dad ran. Mom went with him because she was afraid Willie would come after her when he heard Dad had left. The defense captain for Harlem arranged for them to go to Oakland—said the brothers there would take them in. Mom's the one who decided to leave us behind. She didn't want to interrupt our schooling and she figured Bólají and me would be safe with our grandparents since Grampy had stood up to Willie after he broke her arm."

"And were you safe from him?"

Fin nodded again.

"I never saw Willie again, excepting on the TV news. After he died, word was sent to my parents that it was safe for them in Harlem again."

John saw Fin blink as though he were seeing some place far distant.

"Bólají was eight; he fit back into family life better than I did. I was twelve and I'd had a lot of time to think about shit. I still respected my parents, but they chose each other over my brother and me, and they ran instead of standing up and facing matters. It made things rough sometimes between me and my folks, and later me and my brother, 'cause I'd stopped seeing the world the same way they did."

Fin paused as thought remembering. His gaze dropped to the photo and he flinched, a quick turn of his head away from the sight of his uncle the cop-killer. John moved the art book to his lap, closing it as he did so.

"I'm sorry, Fin," he said. "I didn't know. If I had, there's no way—"

Fin's gaze shifted back to John.

"This stays between you and me," he said, his voice stern and flat. "I don't need it known Odogwu Okori and me are blood. Had enough problem with people knowing my folks were Panthers."

Without hesitation, John nodded.

___That's a promise I can make... _

Fin pointed at the book in John's hands.

"You can have that back so long as you keep it away from scanners."

___And that's another one easy to make..._

"It goes back on my shelf and it stays there—I promise."

"And no bringing this up again—not with anybody."

John shook his head.

"Not a word, Fin. Not a word"

"Good."

Fin sank back against the sofa and sighed.

___He sounds like my tea pot... one long hiss of air exhaling a lot of pent-up tension... but he hasn't said if that clears the air between us... I need to know..._

John stretched his legs then leaned back as though settling in for a long stay on Fin's sofa.

"So," he asked, "how you doing?"

Fin stiffened at the question then he glanced down at his ribs.

"Not too bad," he replied, "excepting I let a kid beat me up one-handed."

John kept himself from smiling at the understatement.

___Doesn't matter what horrors befall us... we always find a way to make light of it.. which means we're probably good..._

Fin's wary glare shook John's confidence.

___I'm still being weighed... c'mon, Fin—let bygones be bygones..._

Finally, he saw Fin's expression soften then he heard the question he had been seeking.

"So, what about you?"

"Well," John said, "my head hurts and there's a few days of my life that I can't remember."

"You didn't miss much."

___No, just a bunch of people almost dying... not much at all..._

The sudden heaviness in John's chest from that thought thickened what he said next.

"I'm glad you're okay."

Fin's eyes narrowed then, to John's surprise, he smiled.

"Same here, John, but I ain't letting you hug me."

John's chuckle was drowned by the ring of Fin's phone. Fin reached out to take it from the end table. John saw him sneer at the screen then put it down without answering the call.

"Reporter," he said in response to the quizzical look John gave him. "They keep wanting an interview with 'the hero.' I ain't a hero. Any one of us would of done what I did—just like any one of us would have done what you did. It's our job so we do it."

John nodded at the humbleness in Fin's voice and the underlying truth he was trying to convey.

___The cynical definition of a hero—a cop in a body bag... since neither of us wore one, Fin's right—we're just guys doing a job... at least, we're both good again... damn, that feels good..._


	43. A Part of the Main: Part Three

_eleven handicap:_ I'm not going to explain the arcane methods of computing golf handicaps. Suffice it to say the lower the number, the better and the range is 0 to 18

_White-shoe firms_: prestigious law firms that represent Fortune 500 companies. William Safire sourced this name to the buckskin shoes worn by Ivy League graduates who were guaranteed to make partner at these firms.

Ty-D-Bol® a brand of toilet-bowl freshener that leaves the toilet water blue. Ads for it featured a man in a motorboat in a toilet bowl.

DCPI: Deputy Commissioner for Public Information (the NYPD's PR office)

_Firearms recertification_: NYPD officers must prove their ability to shoot accurately twice a year. I assume for these stories that they also have to be tested when returning to duty after a medical leave. Being unable to shoot weak-handed (left-handed for a 'rightie') or to retain one's grip on a weapon during a struggle certainly ought to be a disqualification, but I can't find anything to prove this is correct.

_The Canons: _the American Bar Association's Model Code of Professional Responsibility.

_Proximate and concurrent causes_: See /wiki/Proximate_cause

_the DMO and the DMLA: _the Deputy Mayor for Operations and the Deputy Mayor for Legal Affairs. The first assists the Mayor of NYC in managing the police department, the second is the legal counsel for the Mayor's office.

_Joanna: _the commissioner's wife and a long-time friend of Sylvia Balzano

The photo in Richardson's lavatory is "The Power of One" by Rick Canham. An earlier print of this same photo, "A Sense of Where You Are," hangs in my home office.

Events in this story move faster than they would in Real Life. Procedures in this story are designed to reflect the needs of the story, not the realities of the NYPD or the DA's office. Characters curse in this chapter.

En route to Kings County Hospital  
17 August (Tuesday) 10:47 a.m.

_Man, one doctor's visit and I'm already beat... now, if Arndt could miss a few potholes... this Benz has a great ride, but it's not made for canyon-jumping... someone who gives a crap about this city ought to run for office and fix the damn streets..._

Joe Fontana fiddled with the adjustment buttons for the passenger seat until he had it reclined into its most comfortable setting. He then let a sigh of overwhelming relief.

_Got the sutures and staples out... quite a pile of them... also got a pile of bad news... the doc gave me my physical therapy plan and said if I don't follow it to the letter, I'd end up with a limp or worse... then he told me it might be a year before I'm completely pain-free... then he said I can't get this damn cast off in time for my wedding...and no intercourse, either—my bones aren't be strong yet... according to him, oral sex is the only thing indicated after pelvic injuries like mine... when I informed him my marriage wasn't getting consummated with a hummer, he warned me anything else would put me back in the hospital... then he explained how losing my pinkie and ring fingers will affect how I hold my tools and utensils... how I'd need a special glove to grip my golf clubs... there goes my eleven handicap... and what's worse, there goes my chances of getting back on the streets..._

The grim news joined several other worries roiling Joe's thoughts.

_Dworkin came to my place last night after his meeting with Branch and Wilson... he threw some papers __on the table then he marched over to my chair and started yelling... he said I was an egotistical user of __decent men and women... a pompous clotheshorse who only thought about himself and to hell with __everyone else... he called me a __self-absorbed,__self-centered, __and __self-serving ass who wasn't fit to __clean Borgia's __toilets, let alone reap the benefits of her honesty and integrity..._

Joe scowled at the memory of Dworkin standing over him, his face florid and his hands flailing with anger so intense it brought Wainwright from his post at the door.

_I had Wainwright throw him out... on his way, the twerp shouted that ADA Borgia had been fired and it was all my fault... like hell it was... sure, I'm glad Borgia called Judith, but I didn't ask her to... but I did benefit from it... getting that heads-up may have saved my appeal... but that doesn't make it my fault...thanks to wanting to strangle Dworkin, I didn't get much rest last night... twerp promised to keep a civil tongue in his mouth..._

Arndt hit another pothole, jarring Joe's thoughts back to Alexandra Borgia.

_She's finished in this town... no other borough's DA will touch her... criminal law firms would snap her up for her insider knowledge of Branch's office, but I doubt she'd bat for the other team... and I can't see her fitting into any of the white-shoe firms... I should see if I can do something for her... something to tide her over... maybe Judith can think of a good way to handle it..._

The thought of Judith made Joe wince.

_I haven't called her... I don't want to tell her what a dud I'll be on our honeymoon... I've chartered a yacht… Judith and me cruising the waters off Long Island... no worries, no plans—just the two of us and a very discreet crew to work the boat, fix the meals, and ignore anything we might decide to do... the doc says I can handle stairs now so the boat's still a 'go' but the rest of it—looks like we'll be reading a lot of poetry to each other while we cruise..._

Joe spent the rest of the drive mentally grousing about his situation. When Arndt pulled into the drive at the entrance to Kings County Hospital, he obediently waited in the Benz while Meron scoped out the location.

_I learned my lesson... do whatever these guys say—they're the experts... should have listened that night Golja hit me... if I hadn't stopped to wait on Bradley and Wainwright at the parking garage, I wouldn't be held together with screws and baling wire and worrying about my grip strength..._

The coast being clear, Joe left his cell phone and Judith's carry piece with Arndt in the car while Meron accompanied him into the hospital. They asked directions to Captain Cragen's room from the woman at the information desk, where Meron also asked if Joe wanted a wheelchair.

_I'll be damned if I'm getting back into a chair after all my hard work learning to walk again..._

The long trudge through the hospital corridors found the captain awake and able to see visitors. Joe let the officer at the door check his ID then he left Meron in the hall as he made his way into the room. Captain Cragen was lying on the bed, his chin stubbled with beard, the skin around his eyes tight from pain.

_He looks damn good for a man who was gut-shot two days ago... I had more monitoring gear—but he has a sheet and blanket... _

Joe paused at the foot of the captain's bed to wait for Cragen to acknowledge him.

_I'm exhausted... who'd of thought laying in bed and talking to people was hard work?_

Don Cragen lay back against the stack of pillows on his bed and closed his eyes.

_Just a few minutes before the next one comes along... that all I'm asking..._

Voices from outside his room denied that hope. Don listened to the officer at his door check the newcomer's ID then he heard an odd _thump-scrap_ sound accompanied by shuffling footsteps. When he opened his eyes, he saw Fontana, wearing a gray suit with a white shirt, and a gray patterned tie and pocket square, standing at the foot of his bed.

_The peacock looks more like a pigeon today..._

Don's next thought was that Fontana had come to congratulate him on dropping Beale.

_If he does, I'll throw him out of here myself—my surgery and his walker be damned..._

"Fontana," Don said in way of greeting, "how are you doing?"

"Good, sir" Joe replied, "and you?"

"I'm okay, considering."

Don saw Fontana nod then he straightened his spine to come as close to attention as his grip on his walker would allow.

"Sir," he said, "I'm here because I want to thank you for putting that officer outside my hospital room. If you hadn't done that—well..."

He then stopped as though unable to finish.

_I'll bet he's thinking '… I'd be dead of a .22 to the head...'_

Cragen nodded as though Fontana had finished his sentence.

"I was glad to do it." he told his visitor. "I'm told you provided the evidence that got the search warrant for Beale's place. Without that..."

It was Don's turn to let his voice trail off.

_Without that, I'd have bled out in my own kitchen... no Elliot and Liv arriving in time... knowing how close it came is bad enough... saying it aloud is worse..._

"I was glad to do that, too," Fontana replied, "except I had no idea at the time what I was doing. As far as I knew, Beale was just some pervert I'd run into once. May I?"

He jerked his walker in the direction of the empty chair by Don's bed. Embarrassed by his failure to be polite, Don invited him to take a seat. Fontana sank into the chair with an audible sigh.

"Hard to believe Beale was the Sex Crimes bureau chief," he told Don. "I know we'd both be happier—healthier, too—if someone had picked up a vibe from him sooner."

Don started to agree, but Fontana continued speaking.

"But it's Tony Balzano that floored me. He gave Beale everything he demanded—my job, my safety, a crack at you without interruption."

Before Don could comment, Fontana pointed a finger at him.

"Tony always called you 'The Ty-D-Bol Man' because you flushed good cops down the drain. He said what you did to O'Farrell and Sullivan proved your loyalty was as thin as your hair and as limp as your—"

Don stiffened at the insult then he glared at his visitor, a sharp hint for Fontana to shut up. To his relief, the detective changed the subject, turning solemn as he did so.

"This afternoon, I'll sign some papers and Richardson will give me back my shield. The department will pay my bills; the DCPI will issue an apology and, soon as the docs clear me, I'll be back at my desk. No harm; no foul."

The bitter anger in his voice resonated through Don.

"'No harm, no foul,' my ass," he snarled in replied. "There's two dead, a dozen young men raped by their boss—"

He cut off his words and inwardly winced.

_And I shouldn't have mentioned them... shit..._

"You shot to hell," Fontana said, picking up the list where Don stopped off, "and me hobbling around like an old man, not to mention this."

He held out his cast so the gauze over his missing fingers faced the captain.

"My doc told me this morning I'll need a special glove to help hold my golf clubs. Seems most of my hand's grip strength was in those two fingers. So, if I can't swing a club without help, how in hell can I hold my service revolver? It won't matter what papers I sign—if I can't pass the firearms recertification, I'll be finished as a cop."

Don stared at the cast as Fontana lowered it again.

_Crap... I hadn't realized that... sounds like he didn't, either..._

Fontana's gaze followed the motion of his arm. He kept his focus on it as he spoke, his voice husky with regret.

"I've called Tony 'friend' for more than ten years. I know how much he loved his son. Even with everything that happened to me, I think I could forgive him if he had called in Major Cases and had them find the rat bastard who raped his son."

Don watched Fontana slowly raise his head, and saw the fire in his eyes as anger flushed his face.

"But he didn't. He used his authority to accuse me, trash my reputation, take my shield, and hang me up like a target for every two-bit punk with a street piece. And it wasn't just me. He fixed it so you'd be the next trophy in Beale's case."

Don remembered standing at Yankee Stadium, his cell phone in pieces in his hand, Beale reminding him that, in a real emergency, a patrol car would be sent to his house.

_Another lie... he knew Balzano had rigged it for him... and Fontana just confirmed what Tullia said yesterday—he did it because I wasn't loyal enough to suit him..._

"I've given this a lot of thought," Fontana continued, "and I can't forgive him any of it. Not now. Maybe not ever."

_I hear you... if things had gone differently—if Beale had had his way, then every time I ran into Balzano, I'd wonder why he was smiling at me... yeah, that's beyond forgiving..._

Fontana's next words drew Don from his thoughts.

"All things considered," he said, "you and me got the better end of the deal."

Don let his gaze wander from Fontana's walker to the equipment monitoring his vital signs.

"That's not saying much," he replied.

Fontana's dry chuckle held no humor.

"No," he said, "it is not, but what we got does beat being dead."

He then grabbed his walker.

"I didn't mean to stay this long, sir. I'd better be going before some nurse throws me out."

After he struggled to his feet, he turned back to face Don.

"Captain, if I spoke out of turn, my apologies. There's a gag order in those papers I'm about to sign, and I wanted to get this said before I couldn't. I figured you'd understand."

Fontana then turned for the door. His speed across the room surprised Don.

_It's like he's running away from what he just admitted..._

As soon as Fontana left, Don settled back on his pillows again.

_Running away from it or not, I'm in agreement with every word Fontana said... I'm alive and Beale isn't... and to Hell with Balzano... he doesn't deserve the powder needed to blow him there... but I'll never say that aloud because of Tullia..._

He closed his eyes.

_Felt damn good to talk this out—even if Fontana did most of the talking..._

Outside One Police Plaza  
Manhattan  
17 August 1:15 p.m._  
_

_I'm glad I saw Captain Cragen... felt good to get all that off my chest before I have to shut up and pretend Tony was the victim here..._

Joe and the two Praesidium operatives crossed the Manhattan Bridge then stopped for lunch in Chinatown. This time Meron watched the Benz while Joe and Arndt discussed Joe's physical therapy regime over Hunan cuisine. Arndt also told Joe that Judith had called while he was visiting the captain.

_She's spending her day redoing all the wedding plans... reworking everything for an outdoor ceremony at Castle Clinton with a reception at the club... she asked me to call her back before my meeting... I think I'll wait until I have some good news to tell her..._

After lunch, the three men drove to One Police Plaza. As arranged the afternoon before, Dworkin was waiting on the far side of the police barricade that restricted access to the area around police headquarters. Arndt stopped by the gatehouse and gave the officer inside his, Meron's, and Joe's identification. While the officer checked them and verified the meeting time and place, Joe scowled through the windshield at his attorney.

_Solid gray suit, white shirt with red pinstripes, and a red diplomat tie... that suit fits him like a sack... with what the twerp charges, he should out-shine me... and I don't like the way he's frowning... if he even thinks about mouthing off at me again, I'm gonna grab him by those lumpy lapels and pound his head against the side of the car until he spits teeth..._

The officer handed the IDs back to Arndt then he explained where to park the Benz. He then activated the street barrier, lowering it into the ground so the car could enter. Arndt stopped behind the gatehouse to let Dworkin enter the rear driver's side door, but the lawyer walked around the Benz to Joe's door, where he stopped by Joe's door.

Joe stiffened his spine and fixed his gaze on the far end of the restricted roadway. Several seconds passed then Joe heard the sound of knuckles rapping on glass.

_He can tap on the window all he wants... there's nothing I need to say to him... _

From the corner of his eye, Joe saw Dworkin draw his hand slowly back from the glass. At that moment, his subconscious handed Joe the memory of an evening in Park Slope: the stoop of a small brick house, a closed door before him, his own hand outstretched and ignored.

_Yeah... me trying to make amends... Dolan threw my apology back in my face... his right, but it still made me feel like crap..._

That remembered feeling impelled Joe to open his window three inches. Dworkin leaned forward to close the gap between him and the opening.

"I want to tell you I was out of line last night," Dworkin said over the street noise. "I couldn't yell at Branch without blowing the deal, so I took it out on you. You're not the reason Ms Borgia was fired..."

_Damn right I'm not..._

"... and I'd offer my open hand in apology, but there's this pesky pane of glass in the way."

Dworkin raised his right hand and pressed the tips of his fingers against the Benz' window as though trying to push through it. Joe turned to check his expression.

_No goofy grin... no smirk... he actually looks serious... and, if I keep him standing there, he's going to make us late..._

Joe brought the window fully down then he raised his own right hand.

_Twerp's got a grip like a vise... didn't expect that... _

"We're good," he told Dworkin. "Now, get in the car."

Dworkin released Joe's hand then he raced around to the rear driver's door. As soon as he was in the Benz, Arndt drove to the end of the pavement and pulled into a handicap-marked space in the shade of police headquarters. In the back seat, Joe saw that Dworkin had his briefcase open on his lap. He heard papers shuffling behind the case's lid.

"Can you ask your people to leave?" Dworkin asked. "We need to discuss things."

Joe caught the operative's gazes then nodded. They nodded in return before exiting the Benz. Arndt took his position by the driver's door, Meron by Joe.

"Did you get a chance to read through the papers I left last night?" Dworkin asked.

Joe nodded again.

"Any problem with you signing them?"

_Yeah, about ten thousand of them... _

"I thought I told you—no money."

Dworkin shrugged off the reply.

"You're a man of business," the lawyer replied, "so you know agreements such as this always include a cash settlement. It assures that you won't come back for more later."

Joe started to say a single dollar bill would have satisfied that requirement, but Dworkin kept talking.

"Also, despite my often frivolous demeanor, I take the Canons very seriously and they prohibit lawyers from letting clients screw themselves unless there is a very good reason for doing so."

He peered at Joe over the edge of his briefcase.

"You think your injuries are a result of you not listening to your hired mercenaries, and you're partly right. Your failure to follow their directions was a concurrent cause of your injuries, but Beale's and Golja's murderous intents on your life carry more weight as proximate causes. Without them, you could have waited at that parking lot exit in perfect health and happiness until the Ayatollah swapped his headscarf for a yarmulke."

Joe felt his jaw start to drop open. He quickly clenched his teeth then relaxed so his reaction would not be noticed.

_How the hell did you figure that out? Only people who know about that are Bradley, Wainwright, and Judith—I can't see any of them blabbing to you..._

Dworkin's sly grin showed he knew what Joe was thinking.

"I probably should have told you. I represented Josef Golja—got him a pretty sweet deal considering. He told me what happened that night: where he stole the truck, how he figured the airbags would protect him so he could get away after the crash, and about your extremely helpful imitation of a sitting duck."

Joe blew a long breath out.

"What you just said," he told his attorney, "proves my point. This is between Golja and me. If I want money, I'll sue him and his nephew, not the City."

In the back seat, Dworkin held up both hands in a sign of surrender.

"Fine. If you don't want or need the money, then donate it to a worthy cause. I'm sure you kn—"

He stopped when, outside the Benz, both operatives stiffened and turned their attention to the nearest entrance to the building, an unmarked door that had swung open. Through it walked a young woman in a black business suit, white blouse, and a slight bulge at her left side where a shoulder holster would hang. Behind the woman were two uniformed officers.

Dworkin shut his briefcase.

"Our escort approaches," he announced. "She's the commissioner's aide, right?"

Joe nodded as, outside the car, Arndt moved to the trunk and opened it. He handed Joe's walker to one of the officers, who examined it carefully before carrying it to the passenger side of the Benz.

Joe put his hand on the door handle.

"Well," he said, "looks like it's show time."

"What about the money?" Dworkin asked.

Joe did not bother to look back at him.

_I don't want it, but I'm not risking having this meeting blow up in my face for a measly ten Gs..._

"Let it lie," he told Dworkin. "Let's just get this over with."

Office of the Commissioner, NYPD  
One Police Plaza  
17 August 1:25 p.m.

Sometimes, when Tim Richardson excused himself to use his private lavatory, it was for the usual reasons. Other times, it was because the people in his office were too important to ask to leave so he could have a few minutes to himself.

_And the DA, the DMO and the __DMLA__ aren't people I can kick out for a few minutes so I can think in private..._

Richardson paused at the sink to check for residue from the working lunch he had shared with the DA and the two deputy mayors.

_Damn, I look like hell... the little time I got at home last night was spent __talking about Sylvia Balzano... Joanna told me Sylvia finally agreed to let Tony be the fall guy... but she said Sylvia is only doing it to protect her son... if my plan fails, she'll run straight to the media—tell everyone how I smeared her husband's reputation in revenge for his trying to block my reorganization... but the 'news' that Beale did Tony and blackmailed him with it is too juicy for anyone to want to check behind the curtain... Sikes' articles in the Ledger tomorrow should satisfy the curious so Paul Balzano and the other victims should be safe... wish we could have kept them safe from Beale... asshole subverted both the DA's office and the NYPD... he betrayed the public trust to feed his own perverted needs..._

_Richardson looked at the weary face staring back at from the mirror then shook his head._

___Damn, I need a vacation—or at least a good night's sleep..._

_He turned away from the sink to fix his gaze on the only artwork in his office suite that was not police-related. The framed photo, a gift from his wife to celebrate his appointment as police commissioner, depicted a hiker dwarfed by the vast whiteness that filled the photograph. _

___That hiker may be caught in a white-out, but he's not lost or helpless... you can tell by the way he stands, his hand resting easily on his hiking staff, his stance sure, not tentative... he knows where he is and where he is going... no winter snow is going to deflect his course... it was hanging in my office, but too many people asked questions—Is that really a photo? Is that you? Why is the guy so small? Does it mean anything...? I finally moved it in here, where it can hang in peace and remind me that one man can withstand the storm if he knows his destination..._

_The commissioner took a moment to nod at the hiker then he turned back to the mirror. After he had adjusted the set of his suit jacket and straightened the knot of his tie, he gave the lavatory's toilet handle a push then he ran the water in the sink for a few seconds._

___Can't have anyone think I don't wash after flushing..._

_A quick check of his watch told Richardson it was time._

___Fontana and his lawyer should be on their way up with Michelle... Wilson, Fulton, and Marczek should be in my office... Branch said McCoy was five minutes out... we'll wrap up with Fontana and hand him over to Sikes for his interview... if all goes according to plan, this mess should be behind us by this time tomorrow... I can get everyone back on track... I know where I'm going and where I need to take the department... God willing, we'll be able to hold that course..._


	44. A Part of the Main: Part Four

Author's notes:

In this chapter, I grossly oversimplify the system for handling civilian complaints of NYPD personnel.

CVs:_ cirriculum vitae_ (Latin for _course of life_)Lawyers and professors refer to their _résumés using this term_

_Criminal Justice Operations Committee:_ A committee of the New York City Bar Association

Kente cloth: colorful cloth woven on a hand loom; African origin

_That was years ago... _Canon has McCoy marrying (and later divorcing) one of his co-workers and also sleeping with four of his ADAs (Claire Kincaid and the three before her.)

_JTF_: Joseph Thomas Fontana. According to canon, Fontana was named for Tom Fontana, creator of "Homicide: Life on the Streets." Thomas being Fontana's middle name is mine, not canon.

_Penultimate page_: ultimate means 'last;' penultimate means 'second to last;' antepenultimate means 'before the second to last.' (I really doubt you'll ever need that ultimate word.)

_Board_: Civilian Complaint Review Board (also CCRB) the group who determines if a complaint made against a NYPD officer is actionable or not.

_1308_: I have this shield number for Fontana from screenshots of L&O episodes. The clearest one (from "Enemy" appears to read 1308 although, in "Kingmaker" and "Fluency," it might be "1324".

_Firenze__: _Italian for Florence, the largest city in Tuscany, Italy.

_The Lowell trial: _Episode was "Thinking Makes It So" Mitch Lowell was the suspect Fontana dunked in a surprisingly clean toilet (seriously—either the prop department installed a brand-new toilet for that scene or some poor slob worked her elbows to the bone scrubbing it.)

_Haley's comet _approaches the Earth every 75 years

_PRIDE: _PRIDE is an acronym for "Programmable Retrievable Investigative Data Entry, the computer system used to track NYPD officer complaints.

_Taxreg numbers_: Badge and shield numbers are not unique so NYPD personnel are issued Tax Registration numbers; their personnel records are organized using these numbers.

_Trapdoors and Trojan horses:_ types of program hacks. The method Kincaide used is neither of these.

DCLM: the NYPD's Deputy Commissioner for Legal Matters

Conference Room  
Office of the Commissioner, NYPD  
17 August 1:20 p.m.

Jack McCoy, his visitor's badge flapping against his suit jacket in rhythm with his long strides, hurried down the corridor to the commissioner's office.

_Arthur asked me to be here ten minutes early... right before he told me to meet with Casey Novak about the Sex Crimes Bureau, and to review his picks for Alex's replacement on my desk... both of those on top of my trial prep and everything Alex left undone... I got it all done thanks to an early lunch at my desk with Casey then a quick look at those CVs... I've no problems with any of them—other than they're Arthur's choices and not mine..._

The officer stationed outside the commissioner's office suite glanced at McCoy's badge before ushering him into the conference room. McCoy paused in the doorway to scope out the scene. Neither Commissioner Richardson nor his aide were present, and the inner door to the commissioner's office, opposite McCoy, was closed.

_His office... his prerogative to arrive last..._

On the conference table at the end nearest Jack lay a closed pressboard folder, two pens, a large carafe surrounded by mugs, and a dozen bottles of water.

_Looks like Dworkin forget to request champagne..._

Five people were present in the room. Two of them were standing to the right of the closed door. Jack could not hear their conversation, but he recognized the tall black woman by her signature white pants suit with its Kente cloth accents.

_Donesha Blevens, the Deputy Mayor for Legal Affairs... the man with her is Anatole Guerrera, the DM for Operations... I served with him last year on theCriminal Justice Operations Committee... they're here to represent the mayor since the City is footing the bill for Fontana's settlement..._

Neither deputy mayor noticed McCoy's arrival, but Edwin Wilson, who was talking with Chief Fulton across the room from McCoy, paused his conversation long enough to nod in greeting.

_All we need now is the commissioner, Arthur, and Fontana and Dworkin..._

A muted _harrumph_ warned Jack that his boss was both present and behind him. He sidestepped to clear the way for Branch.

"Glad to see you could make it," Branch greeted his EADA, his voice pitched for Jack's ears only. "You get Casey taken care of?"

Jack nodded.

"How about my suggestions? Find anyone on my list to suit you?"

Jack raised an eyebrow.

_Suggestions, my ass... every one of those names was hand-picked for loyalty to Arthur... no chance of any of them thinking for themselves the way Alex did..._

Jack met his boss' gaze as he asked, "What if I'd prefer someone not on your list?"

The smile that spread across Arthur's face contained only a trace of good humor.

"Why, Jack? Aren't my choices nubile enough for you?"

Jack winced at the jibe.

_That was years ago... only Arthur with his Bible-belt mentality bothers to remember... but it's a great way to shut me up—at least in public..._

Jack made a mental note to resume the conversation later and in private, then he steered the conversation away from his past relationships with female ADAs.

"Do you really think," he asked, "'nubile' is the correct word to describe Jake Wassermann?"

Arthur shrugged off the question.

"I thought you might like a change of scenery," he told Jack, "and there's Tim."

Jack followed Arthur's gaze to where Richardson was now standing, a portfolio tucked under his left arm. Jack noted that the stress of the past days had darkened the shadows under his eyes.

_Tim expected to be basking in glory right now... big revamp of the department, past injustices righted, the inept and venal removed before they did more damage—the remaking of the NYPD in his own image... things just aren't going his way..._

Despite his apparent weariness, the commissioner addressed the group in a firm, steady voice.

"Fontana and his attorney are on their way up," he told them. "Assuming there are no unforeseen complications, we should have this matter resolved by two-fifteen at the latest."

He then turned to face the two deputy mayors.

"Everything good on your end?"

Blevins nodded. Guerrera raised his hand to indicate his breast pocket.

"We're authorized to sign on behalf of the mayor, and I got the check right here."

"But I'm having trouble believing how little Fontana wants from this," Belvins added, "You certain he won't sandbag us?"

Wilson took a step forward while Arthur shook his head in reply.

"His lawyer is certain," Wilson replied, "and that's good enough for me."

Blevins tipped her head to peer at the DCLM.

"Edwin, when insurance is footing the bill, people see nothing but dollar signs. Ten thousand is a pittance compared to what Fontana could have gotten out of us, but—"

She raised her hands in a gesture that was part surrender, part waving the matter away from her.

"If you're certain, then I'm happy."

Richardson took back the meeting by asking, "Any one else have a comment before Fontana arrives?"

When no one else spoke up, Chief Fulton then directed the group to take their seats around the conference table. The seating plan left the head of the table for Fontana with his lawyer on his right and the DA on his left. Wilson and the two deputy mayors were placed to the right of Dworkin's seat.

_The people who negotiated the deal and the people paying for it..._

Fulton put Jack next to his boss. Fulton then moved to the seat next to Guerrera while Richardson walked to the chair on Jack's left before turning to face the hall door.

Jack took the opportunity to lean close to Branch.

"Arthur," he whispered, "is everything on track here?"

Branch replied, "Yes. It should be a very interesting and productive meeting."

Jack started to speak, but Dworkin entered the conference room before he could ask another question. The attorney glanced at the occupants then he stepped aside to let his client into the room. Sgt. Young, the commissioner's aide, followed the older man as Fontana made his way slowly, his steps propelling the walker in uneven jerks. Jack noted how loosely Fontana's suit fit at shoulders and waist, and how drawn and pale his face was under his tan.

"My God," he whispered to the DA, "Fontana looks awful."

Arthur replied, "He must have one hell of a guardian angel."

_And one hell of a medical team..._

Jack kept his thought unvoiced as the commissioner spoke.

"Counselor, Detective," Richardson greeted the two men, giving his aide a nod to thank her. "I'm glad you both are able to be here today. Why don't you get seated before we run through the introductions?"

…...

The moment the commissioner said the word "seated," Fontana made a beeline for the nearest empty chair.

_Don't have to invite me twice... legs went all rubbery on the way up here... no, I don't need help sitting down..._

He shrugged away Dworkin's outstretched hand as he lowered himself into the chair. When Richardson made an offer of coffee, Joe asked for water instead.

_I've got my pain pills in my pocket in case I need them... gonna try and tough it out..._

The commissioner then made the introductions, giving each person at the table a name and title. He began with the deputy mayors.

_That woman's staring at my tie like I spilled something on it..._

Joe glanced down but his tie was free of food stains.

_Maybe she's admiring it..._

Chiefs Fulton got a nod.

_I'll save my salute until after I get my shield back..._

McCoy he ignored.

_Man thinks I'm a liar and a crook... came into my squadroom and said so for everyone to hear... far as I'm concerned, the hell with him... _

Branch and Wilson each got a cold, hard stare.

_You two wanted to sweep everything under the rug..._

With the introductions completed, Richardson indicated the folder on the table before Joe. Fontana let Dworkin open it and scan the pages inside. When he was finished, he assured Joe that everything was kosher.

"Great."

Joe took his reading glasses from his pocket and put them on before he began initialing each sheet.

_Non-disclosure clause: I don't talk to anyone about Beale, Balzano, this agreement, what the city's doing to reimburse me, Beale's victims including Tony's boy, or anything else pertaining to this—and neither does anyone else... reinstatement clause: I get my rank and pay grade back... and I go back to Manhattan Homicide... Dworkin told me I'll have to talk to the new commander about partner assignments... Ed says Izzie Cortale is taking Van Buren's place... I know Izzie... he'll work with me—that's assuming I can pass the physical..._

Joe flipped to the next page.

_If I can't, then this clause guarantees I get my firearms permit and my rights and benefits no matter what... I sure as hell don't want to retire... God damn Beale and Balzano for making it likely..._

He took his anger out on the paper, digging the pen into it as he initialed it.

_Next up, the return of my service weapon... nobody better have messed with it... took me a while to get the trigger action to my liking..._

After he wrote his "JTF" on that page, Joe turned to the sheet listing the monetary payments.

_The City will cover my Praesidium bills through today and pay most of my medical bills although they won't cover at-home therapy or nursing—all of Arndt's non-security charges are on me... and they're only reimbursing me for the mobility aids Nick installed—not the therapy equipment... I can live with that... but this last one..._

Joe rested his pen by the clause granting him ten thousand dollars for his troubles.

_I still don't want it... it won't change anything... it certainly won't buy my fingers back..._

He looked up from the page to see everyone staring at him.

_They all look worried... like I'm gonna change my mind and demand more... I ought to take the check and rip it up right in front of them... this never was about money... I just wanted my name cleared and my job back—and an explanation from Tony for why he screwed me over..._

Joe initialed the page then turned to the next one.

_All those sighs of relief damn near blew the paper over for me... here's where I agree to be interviewed by some reporter from the Ledger... Dworkin said this will be front-page news tomorrow... the TV stations and other newspapers will pick it up... if that doesn't tell everyone I'm no longer beyond the pale, I don't know what will..._

He then turned to the penultimate page.

_This is the important one... the one where I get to clear my name... tell my side of these ten __complaints... I wanted a hearing on all of them, but I understand the reasoning for keeping it to ten... _

Joe wrote his initials with a glad heart.

_This will remove any doubt Judith's family might have about me... they'll see I'm not afraid to face the Board and tell my side of things... and, if the Board rules against me, they'll understand... they know the department has too damn many rules... even the best of us gets crossed up with them..._

After initialing that page, Fontana turned to the last page and signed his name on the appropriate line. While Dworkin passed the agreement to the others for their initials and signatures, Joe leaned back and closed his eyes.

_Well, that's done... not that it fixes everything, but it's the best I'm gonna get... and my legs and hips ache like mad... and maybe I oughta take a pain pill..._

"Detective, you okay?"

Joe opened his eyes to see the chief of operations standing at his side, his hands held out before him. In his left was Joe's revolver, in his right the leather shield case that had been handmade in Firenze to Joe's specifications.

"I am now," Joe replied as he took the items from Fulton. "Yes, sir—I am now."

He opened the case to verify that it did contain his shield...

_1308... yep, that's me..._

… then he slid the case into his jacket pocket. A quick check of the revolver showed it to be loaded with standard police-issue ammo. Joe tucked it into his waistband holster.

_Back home where it belongs... _

A quick motion to his right caught Joe's eye. He turned to see Dworkin giving him a 'thumbs-up.' Before he could remember what a jackass the man was, Joe grinned back at him.

_Once won't hurt... after all, he did help make this happen..._

…...

Being ignored by Fontana during the introductions did not surprise McCoy.

_Maybe he doesn't lie under oath, but he comes so close it's hard to tell the difference... I was right to call him on it... he damn near ruined the Zona trial for me—not to mention the Lowell one... watching Dworkin call him as a defense witness then lay into him for his brutality was a real treat... not that it made a dent in Fontana's demeanor—no, he never missed a beat... for my money, any cop that comfortable with brutalizing suspects should be investigated and disciplined—if not thrown off the force... _

The detective's grin at Dworkin after the signing did come as a shock.

_I also saw the two of them come face-to-face in the hall after Judge Bradley recessed for the day... cool as he was in the stand, I could tell Fontana wanted to haul Dworkin into the nearest men's room and find out how long he could breathe toilet water... now, they act like best friends..._

Jack noted how Fontana's joy vanished when Deputy Mayor Guerrera handed him the settlement check. The detective stared at the check for several seconds before he handed it off to Dworkin, who put it in his briefcase. The detective's unease seemed to continue while Guerrera and Blevins expressed the Mayor's hope that Fontana would heal quickly and get back to protecting and serving the citizens of Manhattan.

_No apology from them... they're here only to approve the agreement and hand over the money... and, __the way Tim is escorting them to the door, it's like he 's hurrying them out..._

Richardson shut the door behind the departing deputy mayors then he turned to Branch and said his name. The DA stood up, cleared his throat, adjusted his suit jacket, then he addressed Fontana.

"Detective," he said, his manner formal and his words spoken with slow deliberation, "although you didn't ask for this, I want to say that all of us in this room are horrified by the actions of Andrew Beale. He used his position and our trust in him to—well, we all know what he did to his subordinate, and then his conspiring to ruin you so he could have a clear shot at Captain Cragen. Thank God his plans didn't turn out the way he wanted, but he still came too damn close for my comfort and, I'm certain, for yours also."

Jack listened to his boss orate while he observed Fontana's reaction.

_Man almost looks bored... doesn't he know this is a big event? Arthur saying 'I'm sorry' comes around about as often as Haley's comet..._

"I know" Branch continued, "there isn't an apology strong enough to cover what you went through. I also know I mean it when I say we all deeply regret our failure to put all the pieces together in time to prevent the injuries and injustice done to you, and—"

Fontana raised his hand, halting Branch's oration.

"Sir," he said, "my beef is with Balzano, not Beale."

Branch stiffened at the sharp tone of the detective's words. Jack saw the other officials at the table react with the same shock at the unexpected rudeness.

_Dworkin just turned red... his hands are twitching like he's trying to signal his client without us noticing... he's caught Fontana's attention... now, he's pointing at Arthur, using his other hand as a shield, and jerking his head... I think he's trying to get Fontana to play nice... Fontana is staring blankly at him..._

Finally, one of Dworkin's gestures got through to the detective. Fontana turned back to the DA and gave him a moustache-ruffling smile.

"Of course, I appreciate what you're saying," he told Branch. "It's just that, if Balzano had done his job, none of this would need doing, would it?"

Branch's frown deepened. Across from Jack, Fulton muttered something about ingrates. Dworkin hissed at his client, but Fontana held the smile as he gazed up at the DA.

Jack glanced at the commissioner beside him. Richardson's expression showed nothing as he took a folder from his portfolio.

"I'm sure Detective Fontana is eager to get through these proceedings," the commissioner told the others at the table. "That doesn't make our regrets any less sincere, but there's no reason not to move to the next item on the agenda."

He handed the folder across the table to Fulton, who held it out for Fontana to take.

"This is the letter Tony Balzano left for us."

Jack watched Fontana freeze with his gaze fixed on the folder before him.

_That wiped the smile from his face... and don't look at me—I don't know what's in it..._

Fontana took the folder with his good hand and laid it on the table before opening it. Inside was a stack of clear plastic paper protectors, each holding a sheet of legal paper.

…...

Fontana's chest tightened when the chief held out Tony's letter for him. For a moment, he considered leaving it in Fulton's hands, but a glance at the men around the table convinced him to accept the folder.

_Do they already know what's in it? Richardson, Branch, Wilson for certain... probably McCoy, too... bet he got a good laugh out of knowing how and why I got screwed..._

He kept his gaze focused on the stack of paper protectors, barely noticing Richardson and the others getting up to move into the commissioner's office or Dworkin shifting his chair closer so he could read over Joe's shoulder.

_I'd prefer this was for my eyes only, but he wants to know if there's anything actionable in here... better not be—and there better be a damned good explanation for the hell I went through..._

Joe picked up the first sheet and began to read it silently.

_He starts with apologies to his wife and his son... says he's too ashamed to face them... hopes they'll __forgive him... they're family so they might..._

Next up was Balzano's apology to his boss.

_He asks Richardson to understand and forgive... to not think he's a coward... sorry, but when you take the coward's way out, that's the name you get..._

Fontana flipped to the next page and read how Balzano had learned of Beale's attack on his son.

_'Fire Fontana and everything goes away'... typical blackmailer's lie... civilians always believe it... Tony should of known better..._

The next line surprised him.

Fontana's shooting that kid was justified. Firing him outright would raise too many questions—questions I'd never be able to answer without exposing what was done to Paulie.

_Should have gone with your gut on this one... called in the cavalry and taken Beale out... so why didn't you?_

Fontana read further.

I hadn't bothered looking at Fontana's personnel record for his shooting review—everything was _pro forma_ so there was no need. When I got to my office, I pulled up his PRIDE file on my computer to see if there was anything I could use against him. I was surprised to find no complaints in there. I knew that wasn't possible. The way Fontana worked his cases, there should have been a couple dozen at least.

_T__hanks, Tony—thanks a hellavu lot..._

Zero meant something was wrong. So I asked CCRB if someone could go through the hardcopy files in their office to see if any Complaint Reports had been filed on Fontana. Their people looked and found a stack of them, some dating back to 1995. None of them had been entered in the PRIDE system. That told me that something or someone had fucked with the system on Fontana's behalf.

"So this wasn't Balzano's doing?" Dworkin asked.

"Shut up and let me read."

I was trying to figure out what was fucked when I remembered an incident from when we were bringing PRIDE on-line back in 1995. I was Chief of Personnel then and on the team overseeing the project. In the course of final testing of the software, I asked one of the lead programmers, Tom Kincaide, how he would hack into the system if he wanted to. My thinking was that he knew the system thoroughly so he'd know if there was something everyone had overlooked.

Kincaide told me he'd think about it. The next day, he came by my office and asked for some "live data," numbers of actual cases IAB was working. I had three files on my desk —officers who had failed the Special Monitoring Program and were about to be terminated. I gave Kincaide their taxreg numbers to use for his live data.

A couple days later, he asked if I'd come down to the data center after hours to see what he had. When I got there, he told me how the system runs a nightly "sweep" program than moves all the data entered during the day into the proper files. It allowed the clerks to verify the data before it hit the personnel records. Kincaide said he'd doctored the program to check for the taxregs I'd given him. All complaints entered against those numbers would now be moved to a special hold file instead of the personnel files for those officers.

That hold file was locked so no one could get into it. Kincaide told me he'd used my office number and floor as its password. When he opened the file, I saw it contained a bunch of dummy complaints he'd entered for the four officers I'd given him. Yeah—four. Seems I also had Fontana's file on my desk the day Kincaide asked for test data. He'd asked me to recommend him for membership in the Veneto Club and I wanted to make sure he hadn't done anything that might bite me in the ass. I don't remember giving his taxreg to Kincaide, but his name was in the file records on the screen with the other three losers. I had a laugh over that then I asked Kincaide to make sure the final code was clean. He assured me that he'd already tasked his team with checking for trapdoors and Trojan horses. I assumed that was that.

Joe turned to Dworkin.

"Does this say what I think it says?"

Dworkin peered at the paper as he reread the paragraphs.

"I'm not a computer whiz," he replied, "but I think we're going to find out this Kincaide left his broom in the computer so it could sweep your records clean."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

_I've had my share of rips from COs over the years, but I never had any trouble from civilians, not here in New York. Never knew why; I just chalked it up to good luck... _

Joe tuned back to the letter.

So I starting digging through the computer files and that damn file was still there. I don't know how it survived all the system upgrades and changes. I opened it and saw the same complaints that CCRB had sent over—the ones that should have been in Fontana's PRIDE file but weren't. All this time, Kincaide's program had been sweeping up Fontana's complaints and putting them in this file.

"And that's why we didn't find anything," Dworkin said. "We were looking for subordinates who had access to your records. Never crossed our minds that the computer itself was doing all the dirty work."

He turned to face Joe.

"There's no way you could have known Balzano and Kincaide did this. This clears you."

"Yeah."

_Remind me to celebrate..._

Joe kept reading.

I realized then I had the means to do what Paulie's attacker wanted. Those complaints were "proof" Fontana had worked out a deal to keep the CCRB from acting on complaints made against him. Everyone knows he has the moola and the moxie so no one would have trouble believing it.

I deleted the hold file so it couldn't be tied to me then I brought the original hardcopy complaints to Tim's office and told him what I had "found." Using them, I made my case for the immediate termination of Fontana to protect the integrity of the Department. Tim had no problem signing off on it. The rest was easy.

Joe's gaze dropped to his left hand.

_Easy? Good thing you're dead or I'd show you how 'easy' it really was..._

Dworkin pointed to Fontana's name on the page.

"You notice that Balzano only refers to you by your last name? It's like he had to forget you were his friend in order to do this to you."

Joe scowled at his name under Dworkin's finger.

_After twelve years of friendship—hell, I thought it was friendship..._

"He forgot a lot of things," Joe replied, "including how to do his damn job."

He flipped to the next page.

To make it look worse for Fontana, I arranged for a copy of his personnel folder with all his complaints to be sent to his partner—I worked it so it looked like someone in Personnel—maybe the clerk he "bribed"—had sent it to him. I knew Fontana would beggar himself trying to clear his name, but I figured the lack of evidence and his possession of a file he shouldn't have would muddy the waters enough to keep him from succeeding. My plan was to keep attention focused on him and away from what I was doing to help my son.

After Fontana got hurt, I tried to tell his fiancee how it wasn't my fault. I don't think she understood me, but I couldn't speak any more plainly for fear Paulie's attacker would find out. Tell Fontana I'm sorry for what happened to him. I wish there had been some other way.

Joe let the page drop then he shoved the folder at Dworkin.

"You finish this. Let me know if there's anything else in it."

He ignored the questioning stare Dworkin gave him. When the attorney picked up the letter and began to read, Joe turned his attention to the far side of the conference room.

_You threw me to the wolves... you fixed it so I'd never get my job or my reputation back... and, as far as you telling Judith was concerned... the two of you were alone—no one else there to hear you... you should of skipped the 'bad companions' crap and told her the truth... she'd would of arrested Beale... yeah, I'd still be all bunged up, but you'd be alive—alive so I could whack you across the face with my cast until your teeth came out... then I'd take my walker and I'd beat you with it until either it or you broke, you god-damned back-stabbing rat bastard piece of sh—_

Dworkin cut off Joe's mental cursing by closing the folder.

"There's no further mention of you," he said. "Balzano tells how Beale had him order the Sixty-Seventh Precinct to ignore any requests to check on Captain Cragen. According to him, he realized what would happen to him, but he says the captain deserved it for being a traitor to the department. Balzano goes on to say that he didn't know who was blackmailing him until he got word of the shooting at the captain's house that Sunday. He realized then it was only a matter of time before Beale's attack on his son, the blackmail, and how he had enabled Beale were discovered. The rest is more apologies to Richardson, his wife, and his son."

Dworkin paused as though waiting for Joe to react. Joe ignored him.

_What's to say? Beale died a rapist and blackmailer... Tony a coward who betrayed the department worse than Cragen ever did..._

He looked at the folder Dworkin had closed, and glared at the letter now hidden from view.

_A mistake made a dozen years ago—two mistakes, because that programmer should of deleted that program and Tony should have made sure he did... a chance meeting I had with some perv two years ago... it all comes together in a perfect storm that damn near killed me... So, why? Karma? Payback on my sins? Because I didn't listen to Mom and hit the confessional like she kept telling me to?_

Joe let his shoulders slump under the weight of what he had learned.

"Are you okay?" he heard Dworkin ask.

_Good question..._

"I'm alive," he replied without looking at his attorney. "I guess that's something."

"If you're done here, I'll tell them you're ready for the Ledger interview."

Joe nodded.

"Yeah. Let's get this over with."

To Joe's relief, the interview with the reporter went quickly and without a hitch.

_Probably because he's also dragging... guy must have yawned twice for every question he asked me..._

Most of the interview served to verify information Jerry Wilks had obtained from other sources.

_Suits me to not rehash everything again... Wilks seemed to know his stuff—even asked how my wedding plans were coming along... I told him Judith was handling everything... my only job is show up and say 'I do...'_

Finally, when the last question was answered and Wilks had left to finish his story, Commissioner Richardson came back into the room. He sat down across from Dworkin, folded his hands on the table before him, and let out a long sigh.

"I know it's been a hell of a day, Detective," he said, "but I have one more item to cover."

Joe straightened in his chair as he wondered what else was coming at him.

"As you probably can tell," Richardson told him, "all of us deeply regret everything that came from the Beale matter—the injuries you suffered, the attempts on your life, the your termination under false pretenses, the stain on the reputations of both the NYPD and the DA's office, the collapse of the First Deputy Commissioner under the pressure and threats made against him and his family, and the damage done to to Beale's other victims, including the suicide of Marc Newman.

"In order to make amends and put things in order again, I've called in a great number of favors, one of which got the CCRB to bump your ten complaints to the top of their agenda. I'm told they should be ready to meet with you sometime mid-September."

Dworkin made a note of the pending date. Joe settled for a nod.

_Kinda wanted that over with before the wedding... guess that was too much to expect..._

"I have no control over what the board will recommend," Richardson continued, "but I have the authority to confirm or overrule their decisions. However—"

Joe glanced at Dworkin, whose blank expression showed he also had no clue what was coming.

"—I'm not going to overlook how the quantity and the substance of those complaints support my belief that you're probably too old-school to suit the needs of modern-day police methods. If I were you, I'd be ready to invoke that retirement clause in your settlement agreement."


	45. A Part of the Main: Part Five

Author's notes:

Characters, especially Fontana, curse in this chapter—be very warned. Ardent E/O shippers might want to skip the last section of this chapter.

I'm still over-simplifying the discipline and personnel procedures of the NYPD. Since I can't locate a layout for One Police Plaza, I'm making it up based on the info I could find.

_Accrued sick days, vacation, and terminal leave:_ NYPD personnel get sick days and vacations like all other working stiffs (despite the fanfiction meme that no NYPD detective ever gets a day off.) Terminal leave is the days accumulated towards time off before the actual retirement date.

_Door number one:_ allusion to the game show "Let's Make A Deal." Contestants could choose as a prize whatever was behind one of three doors. Usually, there was a great prize (a new car,) an okay prize (a new refrigerator,) and a silly prize (a live goat.)

_George Conrad_: Chief of Detectives in my stories

_Sullivan:_ former Chief of Department Sullivan from my story_ Corrosive. _

_Blowing smoke:_ attempting to confuse an opponent or to hide something from him

_Roland's people:_ in the story, the NYPD's Deputy Commissioner for Public Information is Roland Crutchfield.

_Tin_: slang for shield

_Emily Post:_ author of _Etiquette in Society, in Business, in Politics, and at Home_and founder of the Emily Post Institute, which promotes "etiquette and civility in America and around the world." (from its website)

_The dime dropped:_ Slang for "He now understands." It's from old coin-operated phones; the call would be placed only after the dime paid for it fell through the internal mechanism and payment had registered.

_I'll shove that kid off his pedestal and sit there: _The Police Memorial Statue depicts a patrolman holding a furled flag and protecting a young boy. The bronze statue was created in 1939 by noted Italian sculptor Attilio Piccirilli.

_In the bag: _slang for "in uniform"

_fashionisto: _masculine form of "fashionista"

_Manhattan South Homicide: _ Van Buren's squad has been called both Manhattan South and Manhattan Homicide on the show.

Events in this story move faster than they would in Real Life. Procedures in this story are designed to reflect the needs of the story, not the realities of the NYPD or the DA's office.

Conference Room  
Office of the Commissioner, NYPD  
17 August, Tuesday 2:48 p.m.

Randolph Dworkin tensed at the commissioner's suggestion.

_Retire? Fontana just got his job back... and he damn well has a right to that hearing..._

He checked for a sign that the commissioner was making a sick joke, but the stern frown on the man's face shot down the hope.

_Fontana will blow up at Richardson—or worse... I 'd better head that off before I'm defending him on assault charges..._

Dworkin reached out to grab Fontana and pull him back into his chair. To his amazement, the detective was not gathering himself to throw a punch at the commissioner.

_He's just sitting there... hunched over like he took a punch to the stomach, which this definitely is..._

The lawyer watched his client's shock spread across his face as he struggled to understand: his jaw sagging open first, then a shake of his head, then his mouth working to find something to say.

_I'm betting the first thing out his mouth is a word my nana never said..._

"You're telling me," Fontana finally replied, "that it's retire or get canned again, right?"

The commissioner nodded.

"Due to the extraordinary number of complaints now in your file," he told the detective, "the severity of the force alleged to have been used by you in those complaints, and the outcry from the public over the inappropriate conduct that will come to light when the Board reviews those complaints, I expect the Board to recommend your dismissal. You'll be terminated again, this time with cause."

Dworkin watched his client slump back against his chair.

"Man, o man," he muttered, "I can't win for losing."

Fontana's surrender served to galvanize his lawyer.

_We're not giving up yet... sure, you beat up suspects and waterboarded Mitch Lowell.. and, yes, the public is better served without you on the streets, but we're not licked—not by any means... we'll lay all of this on Balzano... if it wasn't for him, the department would have applied appropriate discipline to you years ago... you'd have learned your lesson and be a model cop now—not that I believe it, but I've crafted shakier defenses and won..._

Dworkin hissed to get his client's attention. When Fontana turned his way, Dworkin leaned close and whispered, "Don't listen to him. I'll convince the Board to put you in anger management counseling, work out a deal where you do the Special Monitoring while you're on medical leave, counter the public reaction to those complaints—"

The dullness in Fontana's eyes brightened.

_That's more like it... say the word and we'll show them a thing or two..._

To his surprise, Fontana next move was a change of subject.

"You got my personnel folder on you?"

Dworkin patted the briefcase on the floor between them.

"Sure, but what's that got to do with—?"

"I need those complaints, all of them."

Dworkin peered at his client until Fontana waved his right hand in a "gimme" motion.

"Now," he growled. "Don't make me ask again."

Dworkin kept his gaze on Fontana as he slowly reached for his case. To his annoyance, Fontana turned away to address the commissioner.

"Sir," he said, "Balzano's letter said he deleted that computer file with the complaints made against me."

"Yes," the commissioner replied, "That file was deleted. I had Tech Services check."

"And," Fontana continued, "it said Balzano brought the original complaint forms to you and he made only one set of copies, the ones he sent to me. Is that right?"

Richardson glanced at the portfolio laying on the table beside him then he nodded again. His puzzled expression matched Dworkin's own confusion as he placed his copy of the complaints on the table by his client's hand. Fontana' ignored both the papers and his lawyer's concern.

"Now," he then asked, "did you or anyone else made copies of the complaints, or did anyone put them into the system?"

"No," the commissioner replied, "although they will have to be entered before the CCRB can review them."

Fontana straightened in his chair. He glanced at the stack of complaints and his lip curled with disgust, but that emotion vanished when he turned back to the commissioner.

"If you want me to go quietly—"

Dworkin slammed his briefcase shut, interrupting his client.

"Joe," he whispered, "listen to me. We're not licked yet."

Fontana overrode his whisper.

"Shut up and let me get this over with."

As his client turned back to the commissioner, Dworkin shook his head over the decision.

_We are so close... this is a minor setback... why give up now?_

Fontana took no notice of his attorney's confusion.

"If you want me to go quietly," he repeated to Richardson, "you'll call off the CCRB then you'll shred the originals and let me shred my copies. You do that, and I'll invoke that retirement clause and get out of your way."

Dworkin watched Richardson's eyebrows twitch, the only sign Fontana's demand surprised him.

_Must remember that in case I find myself across a poker table from him..._

Surprised or not, the commissioner wasted no time in agreeing. He reached into his portfolio and removed a stack of papers that matched the one already on the table. He glanced at Dworkin, who reluctantly approved Fontana's decision with a nod.

_Not that I concur, but he is paying the bills..._

"As was agreed in your settlement," Richardson then told Fontana, "you'll retire as an authorized member of the NYPD with full rights and benefits. After the complaints are destroyed, you'll also have a clean record."

Fontana glared at the twin stacks of paper.

"Damn right I will," he growled. "Now, where's that shredder?"

While the commissioner's office shredder sliced the complaints into diamond-shaped confetti, Dworkin kept trying to steer Fontana aside for a private consult, but the detective planted his walker beside the machine and fixed his attention on the destruction. Richardson had offered him a chair, an offer Fontana refused with a scowl, but he swayed on his feet as though upright through willpower alone.

Richardson, who was manning the shredder, considered Fontana as he fed the papers into it.

_George Conrad said he'd cave, but I didn't expect him to—not at all... _

The commissioner finished Fontana's stack of complaints and began shredding his own.

_I also didn't expect him to demand these be destroyed... and I should have... another detail lost in the scramble to contain and control this mess... not that it matters in the long run... with Fontana gone, they're nothing but scrap paper... if any of the complainants cared, they'd have followed up by now... _

When the last sheet had been shredded, Fontana focused a weary gaze on the commissioner.

"I suppose you have my retirement papers filled out and ready for me."

Richardson walked to his desk and picked up a thin stack of paper.

"Sergeant Young took care of it," he replied. "Why don't you look them over and make sure they're correct?"

Fontana made his way to the desk, where he settled into a side chair with his attorney at his shoulder. Richardson handed Dworkin the forms then he stepped back to let the two men read through them.

_Everything is dated July thirty-first as stipulated in Fontana's settlement agreement... Michelle had Personnel computed his accrued sick days, vacation, and terminal leave then cut a check... she also arranged for his handgun license... those two items and his new ID card are included with the forms..._

When the last paper had been read, Dworkin leaned close to Fontana and whispered something Richardson did not catch. Fontana nodded in response then held up the still-blank signature page.

"Before I sign this," he said to Richardson, "I want to know if that article in the Ledger gonna say anything about me being kicked out again."

Richardson clenched his teeth to keep from reacting.

_Damn, another thing I forgot... and he's right—we need to address that..._

"I'll call Sikes," he replied, "and have him include your voluntary decision to retire."

Fontana's snort of disgust interrupted him.

"I'll also tell him," Richardson said, ignoring the interruption, "that neither the NYPD or the CCRB will pursue the matter of the complaints that Balzano illegally manipulated. Will that do?"

Richardson watched the two men discuss his offer in whispers until Fontana finally gave the offer a weary nod. He then took out his fountain pen and signed his name to the forms. Dworkin then took the check and put it in his briefcase while Fontana pulled his shield case from his pocket. From it, he removed his ID card, his department-issued Metro and fuel cards, and his shield. These he placed in a row on the commissioner's desk with the shield furthest from him, his fingers lingering on its surface as though reluctant to let go.

Richardson gritted his teeth at what seemed too much like a final caress.

_This is for the best, but it's still damn hard to watch..._

Fontana then picked up the handgun license and his new ID card with its imprint of "Retired" in its expiration box.

"The deal of the day," he muttered. "Trade in four, get two in return."

Before Richardson could comment, Fontana slid them into the leather case and shoved it into his pocket. He then grabbed his walker and struggled to his feet. His attorney scrambled out of his way as Fontana turned and headed for the door without a word or a glance in Richardson's direction. Dworkin quickly snatched up his brief case to follow his client.

_Dworkin at least looked at me... a shrug to show he has no clue what's up with his client, but it's obvious—Fontana's running away and I can't blame him... I hit him hard to force him to do this my way... I can claim it was for his own good, but it's more for the good of the department... last thing we need is get this disaster off the front page only to have those complaints bring it right back again... _

Richardson moved the retirement forms from his desk to the credenza behind it.

_I'll have Michelle take care of these..._

Richardson settled into his desk chair with a sigh that was part groan.

_Another problem taken care of... and another person who hates my guts..._

A rap on the open door was followed by the arrival of Chief of Department Terrance Fulton. He unbuttoned his uniform jacket as he seated himself across from the commissioner.

"I saw Fontana hightailing it down the hall," he told Richardson. "Did he sign?"

"Yes, he signed," Richardson replied, "just like Conrad said he would. Any word on the other detectives he was seeing about?"

Fulton took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket to refresh his memory.

"Four took door number one, and thirteen screamed for their reps, which is about what George expected."

Richardson sighed at the less than good news.

_Nineteen questionable detectives—Fontana and eighteen others... as long as I'm shaking things up, George and I decided it was time to address them, too... most of them are like Fontana, too set in their ways to adjust... they're lawsuits waiting to happen... retraining, counseling—time to defuse them before they blow up in our faces..._

"I should tell you," Fulton continued. "George decided to give Elliot Stabler a pass this time."

Richardson stiffened at the sound of the SVU detective's name.

_Cragen's fair-haired boy... and one of the main reasons Cragen is alive and the One-Six isn't a heap of rubble... but he's also a known risk... when Sullivan called him 'one punch short of a psych review,' he wasn't blowing smoke..._

The commissioner fixed a weary stare on Fulton.

"Is this because placing the hero of the day under administrative discipline doesn't pass the PR smell test?"

Fulton smiled at the commissioner's quip.

"Yes, but more because George learned Stabler already is seeing a departmental psychiatrist. He figured it was better to give him the benefit of the doubt."

Richardson nodded.

"So long as George keeps an eye on him. Now, what's the latest on Tony?"

Fulton flipped his notes over.

"Tony's sister is finalizing arrangements for his burial on Friday. She told me the family won't object to a public memorial service next week, but we shouldn't expect them to attend it."

Richardson made a mental note to have Roland's people start planning Tony's official ceremony.

_I'll have to stand up and say good things about him... how he loved the department and his family... and somehow skip over how his love got twisted and caused us so damn much damage..._

Across from him, he noticed that Fulton had lowered his notes so he could look directly at his boss.

"Mrs. Horne also told me Sylvia doesn't want any of us at Tony's funeral," he said.

Richardson grimaced at that news.

_Sylvia told Joanna to stop coming by... that hit her hard... she and Sylvia have known each other since college..._

Richardson shook his head over the loss of his wife's long-time friend.

"Sylvia needs to be angry at someone right now," he told Fulton. "Looks like that someone is us."

"Part of the job," Fulton replied. "Just part of the job."

Fontana's rush from the commissioner's office did not end until he was in the elevator. He ignored his lawyer's own silence, feeling only the pain of his sudden severance.

_All the hell I went through... all the work Dworkin did... all the money I paid him... and I'm out on my ass again... and why? Because I wasn't polite enough to the humps we arrest... hell, everyone knows they don't read Emily Post... that's why we're allowed to say and do things that would get us thrown in jail if we weren't cops... the shield means I'm authorized and they're not..._

Joe remembered how light his empty shield case had felt in his hand.

_I had my tin back for what—a half-hour? Just long enough to feel real again... then Richardson hits me with being obsolete... not fit for twenty-first century policing... that's crap... I'm twice the cop of those high-tech kids he's putting on the streets—even without my fingers... Richardson knows it... that fuckwad also knew exactly how to make me sign those damn papers... _

How the commissioner screwed him over churned Joe's stomach.

_Promising to make me the subject of every headline and news show... Judith will be a Fontana by then... that means it's not only my name in the news—it's hers, too... people will tar her with the same lies I'd being tarred with... _

The churning in his stomach settled into a cold lump of despair.

_Sure, I can weather the shit storm, but I can't do that to Judith... fuck fucking Richardson for threatening her... and fuck him for forcing me out..._

By the time the elevator door opened, Joe's knees were wobbling.

_I gotta sit down... I did too much... and too damn much got done too me..._

A group of people, civilian and uniform, surged forward to enter the elevator cage, leaving Joe no room to maneuver his walker. Dworkin pushed into the crowd and raised his briefcase as a barricade to part the surge. Joe made his way through the gap then he scanned the lobby, ignoring the memorials, banners, and bronze statuary as he looked for something to rest on.

_If I have to, I'll shove that kid off his pedestal and sit there... there's a bench by the exit... at the far side of the fucking lobby... shit..._

Joe kept up the string of mental cursing until he had settled onto the bench. He leaned against the glass outer wall, trying to ease the ache in his gut and pelvis. Dworkin dropped onto the bench beside Joe and let out a long sigh.

"That could have gone better," he said.

Joe considered sneering at him.

_But I hurt too much for sarcasm..._

"Why did you fold like that?" Dworkin then asked "For all you knew, Richardson was bluffing."

Joe shook his head.

"He wasn't. Besides, it wouldn't of changed anything."

"Not necessarily. Like I said—"

Joe's cell phone rang, interrupting Dworkin. Joe fished it from his pocket and answered it to hear Ed Green's voice.

"_Hey, Joe. I thought I'd call and see how things went today."_

Joe gritted his teeth.

_Shit... I don't want to tell him this over the phone..._

He glanced back at Dworkin. The attorney had slid to the far side of the bench as though to give some privacy for the call, but his gaze was aimed straight at Joe.

_I also don't want to tell this story any more than I have to... makes me sick to think about it... guess I might as well can kill two birds with one stone..._

Joe drew in a deep breath then he told his partner, "It went like this: the doc said I probably won't heal enough to pass the physical. He also said there's nothing they can do to fix my hand to get me through the range test. So, I went to the commissioner's office and let them do their thing then I handed in my retirement papers."

_Or something like that..._

Joe saw Dworkin jerk as though shocked. From the phone came the sound of his partner's _"No!"_

"Yeah," Joe replied. "I figured I might as well get it over with."

"_But what about those complaints? I thought you wanted—"_

"I watched Richardson shred every damn one of them. My record's clean."

Before Ed could reply, Joe quickly added, "Ed, I'm tired and I hurt. How about you come over when you get off tonight? Judith will be there, and I'll tell you both what happened."

He heard the sharp _hiss _of breath that was Ed's way of signaling annoyance.

_I can't blame him... this is a helluva way to get the news..._

Finally, Green said, _"A'right, I'll be there. See you then."_

Joe let the call end then he turned his phone off.

_No more calls... no more interruptions... I'm gonna drop Dworkin off then go home... pain pills and a nap... psych myself up for telling Judith and Ed how the commissioner fucked me over..._

He twisted his head until he could see Dworkin, who was now staring gape-mouthed at him.

_Looks like the dime finally dropped..._

"Did that answer your questions?" Joe asked.

His attorney nodded then he said, "So that's why you didn't fight this—because your doctor said you'd end up retired?"

Joe winced at his last word.

"Yeah, that and the media attention Richardson promised to dump on me. Judith went through that crap once when Balzano canned me. I can't let that happen to her again."

_And fuck him for knowing that and using it against me..._

"That was slick of Richardson," Dworkin noted. "Very clever—no, more like ingenious."

Joe straightened to glare at his lawyer.

_Ingenious? He's calling that dipshit 'ingenious?'_

"I'm not paying you to suck Richardson's fucking dick," he told his lawyer.

Dworkin raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not admiring him," he replied, "just his technique. He never once mentioned Judith. He knew you'd make the connection. That sort of skillful coercion deserves applause."

The praise was a lit match set to Joe's smoldering anger. He twisted on the bench, heedless of his pain, and snarled at Dworkin.

"So now you like coercion? What happened to me being a brutalizing barbarian for coercing Mitchell Lowell?"

Joe reached out to aim his finger at Dworkin's nose.

"You clowns get your fucking panties in a wad screaming about how fucking awful we treat those fine upstanding fuckwads you call clients. Well, you're damn fucking right we threaten them. We lie to them—hell, sometimes we even scare the fucking shit out of them by telling them how fucked up they'll be if they don't fucking talk.

"Take Lowell. He'd already killed two little girls. If it hadn't been for me, he'd of killed Julie Grant, but fuck if you give a damn about that. For you, it's all about the fucking criminal's fucking rights—to hell with the victims and to hell with the cops who get to tell the parents their daughter's fucking dead."

Joe glared at the ceiling, aiming his disdain at the commissioner fourteen floors above him.

"That dipshit Richardson—he's fucking forgotten what it's like out there. City's full of fucking assholes raping and killing and curb-stomping for the fucking fun of it. He's forgotten so fuck all much, dipshit thinks his modern methods are the god-fucking-almighty answer to crime in the fucking streets."

His vision blurred as he remembered the times when circumstances had gotten the better of him and all he could do was bull his way through, trusting instinct and training to keep him safe and whole. The memories blocked his view of the anger flushing his lawyer's face, and of the people scattered about the lobby who had paused their own business to listen to Joe's rant.

"Fuck high-tech gear," he growled. "Every cop worth his shit knows it's not the gear—it's experience that keeps us fucks alive. It's knowing when something don't smell right, that fuck-me feeling that tells us the shit's about to hit the fucking fan. If a cop doesn't have it up here..."

Joe tapped his forehead.

"It don't matter how high-fucking-tech his gear is—he's fucked."

He heard Dworkin say something about leaving, but Joe ignored him to glare again at the ceiling.

"You hear me, fuckwad?" Joe shouted. "The fucking street's gonna chew your fuck-tech gear up and shit your people out in fucking body bags— "

Gasps of disbelief cut off Joe's rant. He glanced around to see everyone in the lobby staring at him. A few were nodding their approval, but most were gape-mouthed with shock. A sergeant, his shield surmounted by a long line of commendation bars, scowled at Joe then pointed above his head to the memorial plaque, its face engraved with the names of those killed in the line of duty.

A chill ran through him as Joe realized where his anger had taken him.

_This is where we honor our dead... and I'm shouting about body bags..._

He slumped forward as his rage drained from him, leaving him sick with shame.

_Everyone's staring... even Piccirilli's statue looks pissed at me..._

Dworkin stood up and said, "We should go."

Joe's hand shook as he reached for his walker.

"Yeah, but just a sec."

He struggled to his feet then, with his head slightly bowed, he met the sergeant's disapproving gaze.

"I shouldn't of said that," Joe called to him. "No, sir—not here."

He then quickly turned for the exit.

_Before someone comes over and gives me the kick in the balls I deserve..._

Kings County Hospital, Brooklyn, NY  
17 August 2:25 p.m.

Elliot's day had started with a nine o'clock appointment with Dr. Jackson.

_A solo meeting... a chance for me to tell her what happened and how it makes me feel... bluntly, it makes me feel like crap—I'm not sleeping thanks to nightmares... I'm also having trouble keeping what I can say and what I can't say straight thanks to being brain-fucked by all this shit... I can't wait for Jerry's article to come out tomorrow so I can use it for a cheat sheet..._

Elliot settled for a short recitation of the facts of the bomb attempt and Cragen's shooting, hoping that the psychiatrist would take the lack of details for his reluctance to talk about coming so close to death.

_And it worked... Dr. Jackson said the nightmares are a normal reaction... she also said I seemed jumpy and overwhelmed and that was normal, too... so, my fake reasons for symptoms I'm really having are normal and my fake symptoms hiding real reactions are normal, too... there's got to be something abnormal about all this normalcy, but I'm too tired to think about it..._

Dr. Jackson's next concern was what, if anything, Elliot had told his wife.

_I got major points for already filling Kathy and my kids in... I guess the doc was afraid I'd backslide under pressure... she then scheduled an extra session this week with me and Kathy to see how we're coping as a couple... then, just as I was about to leave, the doc said she was concerned I had gone back to work too soon... she urged me to take some time off... I told her we were too short-handed right now, but I'd see about it... I know I need a good twenty-four hours' sack time and a chance to decompress... but that will have to wait until everyone can get back to full duty..._

After the session, he spent some time with Elizabeth and Richard.

_If I can't take time off, I can at least enjoy a couple hours with my kids at the batting cages... afterward, I dropped them at the house and I took Kathy to lunch... we kept it light... talked about our date night coming up next week and getting everyone ready for the new school year... simple stuff... as far from blood and death as we could get..._

After lunch, Elliot drove his wife to Kings County so they could see Don Cragen.

_We met up with Olivia in the lobby... I'll ride to work with her then catch a ride home after work with Couch..._

Kathy asked Olivia how Dave and his family were, a question that started a conversation between the two women that continued through the elevator ride and left Elliot to his thoughts.

_I want to see Cap, but I want to see him in the squadroom, hands in his pockets, tie loose and collar open... I want to see him leading the shift meeting or laughing at something crazy John said... hell, I'd even take having him blow up at me..._

He followed the two women from the elevator, but he stopped when he saw the uniformed officer standing halfway down the corridor outside Cragen's room.

_I don't want to see Cap in a hospital bed... too much like seeing him bleeding on his kitchen floor... and I don't want to hear him thank me for saving his life... not after I missed seeing Beale as a predator—there's no excuse for that screw-up..._

Elliot hung back while Olivia greeted the officer and Kathy peered inside Cragen's room.

"How's he look?" Elliot asked her.

"Pretty good," she replied. "Here, see for yourself."

Kathy moved sideways to give Elliot a clear view of the room. Inside, a man in hospital scrubs and the floor nurse supported Cragen as he stood by the far side of the bed. His partner rejoined Kathy and Elliot, and the three of the watched as the captain shuffled to the end of the bed., the nurse taking care to keep his IV tubes unkinked as he moved. Cragen kept his attention on the floor, measuring each step as he took it, his face pale and tight with the strain of staying upright. When he reached the foot of the bed, he looked up and his gaze met Elliot's.

The detective broke into a huge grin as the tension built up inside him vanished.

"Feel better now?" Kathy asked in a whisper.

_Hell, yes..._

Elliot nodded in reply just as Cragen called out, "You mind if I get a little privacy for the trip back?"

"Oh, yeah," Liv muttered, "hospital gown."

"Sure thing, Cap," Elliot replied. "Wouldn't want you mooning the ladies."

He turned away from the door, but not before he saw Liv's raised eyebrow and heard Kathy disapprove with a _tsk _ sound.

"What?" he said. "You two rather see the show?"

He dodged, not sure which one would slug him first.

_Neither of them... they just stood there, but Olivia had a huge smile on her face like I'd cracked the joke of the day..._

"I'm that funny?"

"Never," Olivia replied. "It's Don. Yesterday, he couldn't stay awake long enough to tell me what happened. Today, he's walking."

She turned to Kathy.

"I know Elliot told you what happened, but..."

Olivia let her words trail away. Kathy's mouth twisted into a wry smile as she finished the thought.

"... but words can't describe how bad it was, right?"

Elliot joined his partner in nodding agreement.

"Don was bleeding out when we got there," Olivia continued. "Seeing him on his feet like this two days later—what can I say? It's the best."

Elliot caught his partner's eye then he matched her grin.

_Damn right about that... it is the best..._

They were still grinning when they entered Cragen's room. Since the nurse had warned them to keep the visit short, Kathy left after she greeted the captain so Elliot and Liv could have his full attention. Cragen was sitting in his bed, propped up with pillows, his hands folded on the blanket covering him. His face was pale and drawn from the effort of walking, but his eyes were bright and he greeted his visitors with cheer and vigor.

_First thing was me congratulating him on his promotion... we decided in the hall to stay away from mentioning Beale or the First Dep... keep the conversation light... nothing to upset anyone..._

"Moving over to Patrol Services means giving up your fancy suits," Olivia added. "It's back in the bag for you."

"Yes, my career as a _fashionisto_ is over," Cragen replied, "which is a good thing. The dry cleaning charges were eating me alive."

"Liv drafted me to help move your stuff," Elliot told him. "Inspector Renault said he'd store it until you're ready to take command."

"That way," Liv said, "Captain Van Buren can move right in. You've worked with her, didn't you?"

Elliot opened his mouth to correct his partner, but Cragen spoke first, saying that Van Buren had taken command of Manhattan South Homicide when he was transferred to the Anti-Corruption Task Force fourteen years earlier.

"Van Buren's knows her stuff," Cragen told them, "She ran undercover ops with Narcotics before replacing me. Given the crap One P.P. dumped on her and the way they shorted her unit, their close rates are damn close to miraculous."

"And," Liv added, "her experience with Fontana should make handling Munch a breeze for her.

"She already knows John," Cragen told her. "Her people worked a couple of shared jurisdiction cases back when he was still with Baltimore PD."

"You mean she knows John and she didn't turn down SVU?" Elliot asked, his wry grin signaling the jibe. "As Fin would say, 'That's messed up.'"

Cragen smiled, but said nothing. Elliot felt a slight bump on his arm from his partner's elbow.

"We should go," she whispered. "He looks tired."

Aloud, she said, "We'd better get going. I need to meet with Howie before the shift meeting."

"Yeah," Elliot added, "so he can dump his case work on us."

Cragen's smile widened.

"Have Couch run the meeting," he told Olivia. "it will give him some practice in getting dumped on before Van Buren takes over."

"I'll do that," she replied. "And I'll tell everyone how you're doing."

Cragen rolled his eyes at the offer.

"I appreciate that, but they'll probably come by anyway. It's been like Grand Central Station around—"

Cragen's attention shifted to the door of his room. Elliot turned in time to see a woman with dark brown hair draw back out of sight.

_I guess we should get out of here... give whoever that is a turn..._

He took a step toward the door.

"You take it easy," he told Cragen.

Olivia echoed the sentiment. Cragen sighed and said he did not have much choice in the matter then his expression turned solemn. Elliot tensed.

_Don't thank us... don't..._

"I want to say," Cragen said, his voice thick with emotion, "if no one told you, 'Good work,' then I'm saying it. Both with Eshan and at my... at my place..."

His voice trailed off and he began to blink rapidly. Elliot heard Olivia gulp hard as his own throat tightened.

_Oh, shit... she's going to cry..._

Before he could think of something to say, Olivia gulped again then she said, "S'okay, sir. We're just glad everything ended up the way it did."

"Yeah," Elliot added. "we are. You don't have to say another word about it."

_Just keep getting better... and get back to the One-Six where you belong..._

To Elliot's relief, Cragen stopped blinked and straightened his posture.

"Okay," he said, "so long as you know. Now, at the risk of sounding pushy, it's time you got out of here."

He then softened his words with a smile, one that both detectives returned before they left. As soon as they were in the hallway, Olivia slumped against the wall with her eyes reddening above her smile. Elliot took out his handkerchief

"You need this?" he asked.

Liv shook her head.

"Good," Elliot replied before using it to blow his nose and to sneak in a dab of his eyes.

_I'm not crying... I'm reacting to Liv's happiness... partners do that..._

Over the folds of cotton cloth, he saw Kathy rise from a bench further down the hall then come over to his side.

"You two okay?" she asked.

"Never better," Elliot replied, his answer muffled by his handkerchief.

"Me, too," Liv added after a long snuffle. "Happy as a clam."

Elliot shoved his handkerchief back in his pocket then he hooked his thumb at Cragen's room.

"You were right," he told his wife. "Seeing Cap was a big help."

Kathy beamed at him, her smile making his joy complete.

_Cap's okay, Kathy and me are okay, and Liv and me are okay... unbelievable amounts of crap hit us, but we're still all okay... damn, I'm happy about that..._


	46. The Bulldog Edition: Part One

_Author's Notes:_

_ Bulldog edition_: the first edition of a newspaper to hit the streets. For a morning paper like the Ledger, this edition would be printed the night before.

Sylvia Balzano: First Deputy Commissioner Anthony Balzano's wife

Paul Balzano: his son

SpaghettiOs® is a trademark of the Campbell's Soup Company

_Melanzane alla Parmigiana_: eggplant parmesan

Gibson: gin with a touch of vermouth and a pickled onion

Events in this story move faster than they would in Real Life. Procedures in this story are designed to reflect the needs of the story, not the realities of the NYPD or the DA's office. Characters curse in this chapter.

Kings County Hospital, Brooklyn, NY  
Tuesday, 17 August 3:15 p.m.

After Munch left Fin's place with Connie Walker, Fin drove to Kings County to see Captain Cragen. Unfortunately, Fin found Cragen asleep in his bed with his sister newly arrived to watch over him

_She told me she was sorry, but he'd just fallen asleep and she wasn't waking him for anyone under the rank of chief... damn…._

Fin spent the trip to the main floor kicking himself for not calling ahead. When the elevator doors opened, he let the others in the cage with him leave first.

_No need to fight the crowd... I ain't in a hurry..._

The delay left Fin facing the only person waiting to enter, a woman in her fifties.

_Brown eyes, hair brown with gray, wearing black slacks and blouse, no makeup, black shoulder bag slung across her chest... she's staring at me—shit, she recognizes me… I ain't up for hero worship or interviews right now..._

Fin avoided making eye contact as he side-stepped around the woman, but she turned to match his move then said his name.

_She pronounced it right... guess I owe her politeness for that..._

He gritted his teeth as he came to a halt. The woman quickly held out her hand to him.

"Detective," she said, "I'm Tullia Horne and I need to thank you for what you said about my brother yesterday on the Spivak show."

Her name brought up a memory: Munch in the squadroom the day after he and Judith had nailed Lewayne, the serial child killer with the story book.

_John said Cap was seeing Balzano's sister... surprised me so much, I stopped ignoring him to listen..._

Fin attempted a polite smile as he reached for her outstretched hand.

"Mrs. Horne, there's no need to thank me."

_I'd rather forget yesterday... and Sunday—hell, I'd like to forget the whole damn month..._

As soon as his hand closed around hers, Mrs. Horne wrapped her free hand around his and held it tightly.

"You were the only one yesterday," she told him, "who said anything positive about my brother. I can't tell you how good it felt to hear you praise him."

Fin bit back the urge to correct her.

_I told Spivak Balzano was tough, but fair… John would call that 'damning with faint praise... I call it 'not speaking ill of dead brass...'_

"Ma'am, I just told the truth," he replied.

Mrs. Horne's eyes welled with tears as she again squeezed Fin's hand.

"I appreciate that, Detective, and I won't keep you any longer."

She released his hand to fish in her bag for a handkerchief. Fin dropped his arm to his side and wriggled his fingers.

_The woman's got a grip..._

Fin waited while she dabbed at her eyes before saying, "I'm sorry for your loss. Your brother deserved better."

_So did Cap, but I ain't saying that to her..._

Mrs. Horne nodded then turned back to face the elevator, giving Fin the opportunity to leave.

_Go find something to eat then head to the bullpen… even if I'm there only an hour or so, it'll give everyone a chance to see how Munch and me are good again… hope no one drops dead from shock…._

One Police Plaza  
17 August 4:02 p.m.

Joe Fontana's bolt from the Commissioner's office had one more unintended consequence. The lobby was on the opposite side of the building from where his car was parked. Although Arndt brought the Benz as close as the traffic bollards and security barricades around One Police Plaza allowed, Joe still had a football field's worth of brick courtyard to cross in the mid-summer sun and heat. By the time he reached the car, Joe was drenched in sweat and shaking from his exertion. He sank into the passenger seat and closed his eyes, grateful to be off his feet and in the cool blast from the A/C.

_Now, close the door and get me the hell out of here..._

But the door stayed opened. Joe heard the sounds of his walker being put into the trunk then Dworkin said something he couldn't make out, to which Meron replied "Now? He doesn't look too good."

_Don't feel too good, neither… certainly don't feel up to being chewed out by my lawyer… much as I may deserve it…._

Joe opened his eyes to see Dworkin standing by the open car door, his briefcase in his hand and a smile on his face.

"I want you to know," he said, "that, given what you were calling everyone else back there, I really appreciate you calling me a clown."

Joe let out a huge sigh as his concern about his lawyer's temper vanished.

"You're not a clown," he told his lawyer, "and it's not your fault I decided to throw in the towel."

Dworkin waved off his words.

"Careful, Fontana. People might get the idea you're a softie. Wouldn't want that."

He then checked his watch.

"I've got a meeting with Judge Wright at four-thirty. If you don't mind, it will be quicker if I walk from here. "

Joe nodded then he pulled himself upright and turned to face his lawyer.

_Might as well get this said… besides, it's the truth…._

"I gotta say—you did your damnedest for me in all this," he told him. "Thank you."

Dworkin's eyes widened in surprise then he grinned at the detective.

"My pleasure, Fontana—and it truly was a pleasure. Of course, as soon as your final payment clears, I'll go back to not liking you."

Joe ducked his head to hide his own smile.

"I wouldn't expect anything different," he replied. "See you around."

Dworkin spun on his heel, giving a Joe backhand wave as his farewell. Joe settled back into the passenger seat as Meron closed the car door.

_He's not half-bad… still a twerp… now, to go home… I can get five, maybe six hours of shut-eye before Judith and Ed come over…._

SVU Squad Room  
17 August 4:16 p.m.

All hands from both shifts were present as Couch Sofarelli ran the shift meeting with Howie Brewster. As soon as the case updates were covered, Brewster's shift went home, leaving Benson's shift to sort out who was available and who was convalescing.

John gave the discussion a sardonic grin.

"Technically," he said, "it's only Fin and Chester on desk duty. I'm merely not at home at the present moment."

He leaned back in his chair then propped his feet on the lower drawer of his desk.

"Tomorrow," he told the gathered detectives, "I'm bound to a desk. Today, I'm a semi-civilian observer of this unit's evening activities"

Across the aisle, Chester Lake waved a folded sheet of paper in the air.

"Take me off the list," he announced. "My knee got a clean bill of health from the doc."

"I thought your appointment wasn't until Thursday," Otten noted from the other side of their desks.

Lake handed the medical form to Couch then he replied, "He had an opening so I went in early. Figured it's someone else's turn to fetch and carry."

"I'm up for that," Fin called out, "and I'll handle the coffee. No sense letting Munch poison the few healthy people we got."

From her desk, Olivia watched to see how Munch took the jibe.

_Still can't believe those two are talking again… can't say I mind—not at all… I just wish it hadn't taken serious bodily injuries to make it happen…._

John responded to the slam on his coffee by staring over his lenses at Fin.

"Since I'm technically not here, Tutuola, I can't make coffee."

Donna Loudoun reached across their shared desks and snatched Munch's tea mug from its place by his keyboard.

"And, since you're not here, you can't be drinking anything made with our water."

"Or eating anything in our fridge," Elliot added.

Olivia smiled at the quickness with which the rest of the team joined in the teasing.

'_No surfing the 'Net on a squadroom computer,' ' No using the police toilet,' 'Forget the toilet—what about that city-issued chair under his bony ass…?' John is rolling his eyes, but he's smiling… damn, this is so great…._

She spun her chair around to face her partner at his desk.

"It's good to see John and Fin bury the hatchet in something other than each other," she said to him.

Elliott nodded in reply, but his head was turned to his left and his eyes were unfocused as though his thoughts were elsewhere. Olivia followed the line of his gaze to its focal point, the freshly painted wall outside the squadroom.

_No good comes from dwelling on what happened out there… I'd better derail El's train of thought ASAP…._

She reached out a hand then snapped her fingers. Elliott jumped and his gaze shifted to her face. His sheepish grin showed he knew the reason for her interruption.

"Keeping me from zoning out—huh, partner?"

Olivia smiled back at him.

"Last thing we need is you in a funk, Stabler. Not when everyone else is finally back to their own cheerful selves."

Elliot chuckled then, before Olivia could reply or smile back, his attention returned to the hallway.

"You know," he said, his voice pitched low, "I've been here fourteen years. That's a hellavu long time—maybe too long."

A twinge of panic tightened Olivia's throat.

_Don't say you're quitting, El—and don't say ' transferring,' either… just say you want some time off and leave it at that… better yet, don't say anything at all…._

Aloud, she said, "You think so?"

Elliot frowned as though considered the point then he said, "What with all the changes here—Cap heading downstairs, Captain Van Buren coming aboard, Couch getting his stripes—I'm wondering if putting in for a transfer might be a good idea."

Olivia froze in her chair.

_No… no… it's not a good idea at all…._

She swallowed hard then sought for the right words.

_Something light, silly… something that will cover my shock…._

The first syllable Olivia said caught in her throat, but she forced it out, saying, "I—I figured you'd want to stick around to watch Couch crash and burn."

This time, Elliot's lopsided smile matched his chuckle.

"Sure, but we both know he'll do great. That's one of the reasons I'm considering this. I know the squad will be in good hands."

He then drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, a move Olivia knew was her partner gathering himself for seriousness.

"Liv," he told her, "I'm not planning anything rash, and I promise I'll talk it over with you first. I'm just letting you know what I'm thinking."

Olivia arranged her mouth into a smile.

"Oh, I already knew you were thinking," she said, hiding her surprise with a snarky retort. "I could smell your brains cells frying from over here."

Elliot mimed throwing a pen at her just as Loudoun called their names. Her voice drew both detectives' attentions to where she was standing by Otten's desk.

"Are you two up for a trip to Battery City after work tonight?" Donna asked them. "We're trying to find a good place for reading the Ledger's write-up about Balzano and Beale, and Judith suggested Fontana's place."

"I think it's better than McMullen's," Munch added. "We'll never get anything read there—let alone discussed."

"I know Joe has his bar stocked," Judith said, "and I can arrange for food."

Olivia glanced back at Elliot just as Chester asked his partner if Fontana would mind.

_Good question… much of that article will be about him… maybe he'd rather read it in private…._

After Judith replied that Joe was expecting her and Ed to come over, Olivia saw Elliot nod his head.

"Sounds good to me," he said. "How about you, Liv?"

She smiled her approval then turned to face Loudoun.

"I'll pick Fontana's place," she told Donna, "over any cop bar in the City. Count me in."

Kings County Hospital, Brooklyn, NY  
17 August 11:25 p.m.

Don Cragen's dinner arrived right after Stabler and Benson left. He quickly consumed his meal of chicken broth, semi-solid orange gelatin, and cranberry juice.

_I haven't drunk this many meals since I gave up drinking…._

Under his sister's watchful eye, Don then drifted back to sleep, so worn out by the physical exertion of standing and by his visitors that his slumber was deep and free of dreams. It was long after visiting hours when he awoke to see Tullia Horne sitting by his bed. Her gaze rested on a copy of the Ledger's main section that lay on her lap. Even upside-down, its banner head was easy to read: SEX CRIMES B-CHIEF RAPED MEN.

_The headline under the banner is "_1st Dep for the Assist…" _classy, real classy…._

He cleared his throat to get her attention. When Tullia turned toward him, Don pointed at the newspaper.

"You could throw it away," he told her. "You don't need to read it. You already know what's in it."

"Don't you want to read it?" she asked.

"No, thanks. Been there; did that; don't want the T-shirt."

The lame joke brought a smile to Tullia's face then her expression hardened. Without a word, she rose to her feet, wadding the newspaper into a ball as she stood. She then hurled the ball at the corner of the hospital room. It hit the wall a foot above the floor then rolled back until it disappeared under the foot of Don's bed.

"You're right," she told him. "I don't need to read it. It's bad enough living it. I spent today coordinating travel arrangements for family and reading texts from Sylvia—she keeps bouncing between grieving for Tony and hoping he's roasting in Hell."

Don winced at her news.

"Paul's so deep in shock I doubt he'll even make the funeral," Tullia continued as she resumed her seat next to Don's bed. "Fortunately, everyone assumes it's from grief over his dad. I have to give Richardson credit; he's done a great job of burying the truth about what really happened."

Don reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder.

"Let's hope his efforts hold," he replied.

_Right now, it all rests on Wilks' reporting… if he can't sell the commissioner's version, Paul and those other young men will be front page news…._

Residence of Joseph Fontana  
17 Battery Place  
Manhattan, NY  
17 August 11:47 pm

Joe had done exactly what he said he would do when he arrived home; he took some pain pills and went to sleep. He awoke hours later to unfamiliar noises and the scent of excellent marinara sauce.

_Can't be Wainwright's cooking… he thinks Italian cuisine begins and ends with SpaghettiOs…._

Using the trapeze bar his brother had installed by his bed, Joe got to his feet then grabbed his robe and his walker. He then made his way down the hall towards the source of the smell.

_Those are Veneto Club people… they're setting up chafing dishes on Judith's dining table… three trolleys' worth of pasta, sauces, _Melanzane alla Parmigiana—_that's Judith's favorite... platters of cheeses and vegetables… and a tray of desserts… it's like they emptied the club's kitchen and brought up here…._

He turned to Bradley, the Praesidium operative overseeing the set-up.

"You guys decide to order out?" he asked.

The operative shook his head.

"This is Detective Otten's work," he replied. "She said to expect your partner and the detectives she works with sometime after midnight. I wrote down their names."

He pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket and offered it to Fontana. Joe waved it away.

"I know who they are. I just didn't know I was gonna entertain them."

_All I wanted was Judith and Ed so I could fill them in on what really happened… yeah, there's that confidentiality agreement, but that don't mean my partner and my fiancée… does it?_

Joe watched the workers finish their set-up as he considered that fine point.

_Maybe it does… I don't really want Judith knowing Richardson threatened me—or why I finally caved after fighting this for so long… Ed bought the story about the physical… that means Judith will buy it, too… yeah, I'm probably better off if all she knows is the official story… both her and Ed…._

He turned around and made his way back to the master bedroom.

_Guess I'd better get cleaned up… after all, I got company coming…._

Twenty-five minutes later, Joe was in his favorite chair with his walker close at-hand. The smile on his face was calibrated to show acceptance of his fate as he chatted with Ed Green, newly arrived after his shift at Manhattan Homicide. A fresh copy of Wednesday's Ledger, brought by Green, rested ignored on the arm of Ed's chair.

"I gotta tell you, Joe," Ed was saying, "I always thought you'd be carried out of the squadroom feet first."

Joe reared back then raised his eyebrow.

"You wanted me to drop dead of a heart attack in the middle of the bullpen?"

"Nah," Green replied, "I figured the Lieu would finally blow and empty her service weapon into you."

"Good thing Golja got to me first."

Ed looked askance at Joe's quip then he changed the subject,

"What did Judith say about you retiring?"

Joe shrugged.

"I planned to tell her in person tonight," he replied. "I didn't know she was throwing a party."

"You try calling her?"

"I got her voicemail three times. This is not the sort of news she should get from a recording on her phone."

_Or read to her in front of a bunch of detectives…._

Ed nodded his agreement then his gaze shifted to the table laden with warming trays, plates, utensils, and food.

"When everyone gets here, how about I play host so you can take her aside and tell her? That way, she doesn't get the news when Munch or someone reads it out loud."

Joe's grin widened into sincerity.

"Thanks, partner. That'll be a big help."

They talked about Van Buren's visit from Chief Conrad and other squad gossip until Judith and the other SV detectives arrived. Good to his word, Ed met them at the door. He aimed Judith toward Joe before offering to take drink orders from the rest of the crowd.

"That's my job," Joe heard Munch announce. "Just point me at the bar and get out of my way. Fontana, it's your place so you first. What'll you have?"

_Just hand me the bottle… it's already that kind of night…._

He leaned to his right to look at Munch around his approaching fiancée.

"Gibson," he called, noting as he spoke the disapproval on Judith's face.

"Gibson it is," Munch replied before moving on to the next request.

Before Judith could say anything, Joe held up his hand.

"I'll skip tonight's pain pills," he told her, "I promise."

Her expression softened as she stopped at his side.

"I guess one won't kill you."

She punctuated her words with a kiss on his cheek then she took a seat in the chair Green had vacated.

"I tried to call you," she said, "but your phone didn't pick up."

"I had it off most of the day," Joe admitted. "Look, I need to tell you something…."

Joe quickly gave her the official version: how bad news from his doctor had forced him to enact the retirement clause in his settlement agreement. Just as he feared, Judith began to sputter, but Ed's timely arrival with a martini glass filled with clear liquid and a pickled onion kept her silent. As Joe took the drink, his partner mouthed 'Good Luck' at him before returning to the far side of the room.

Joe raised the martini glass to his lips, but Judith lit into him before he could taste it.

"What do you mean, 'retired?'" she asked, her voice hushed but vehement. "You said you wanted your job ba—"

"Yeah," he said, "I did, but it's not gonna happen. I don't want some make-work job answering phones and making copies. Better those jobs are left for cops who need to get their time in. God knows I don't need the paycheck."

Judith leaned closer, body tensed as though she wanted to pounce on him.

"But what about those complaints? What about fighting—"

Joe again interrupted her.

"They're all taken care of. I watched Richardson shred every last one of them. They're gone and my record is clean."

_I got that much, at least…. _

"But—"

He set his drink on the table next to him then reached out to the arm of her chair and laid his hand on hers.

"Look," he said, hoping his words would end the discussion, "I can't grow fingers. I can't guarantee I'll heal enough to pass a physical, and I couldn't see stringing everyone along on the faint hope I might. Maybe I should have talked it over with you first, but hearing the news from the doc this morning hit me damn hard."

_The whole damn day hit me hard… but I'm better off not telling you that… could you please just let it lie?_

He watched as Judith considered his words.

_A swallow for her anger… a frown for disappointment—sure hope that's not at me… a slight shake of her head because she disagrees… and a slump of her shoulders as she accepts it as truth…._

"I'm sorry, love," he told her. "I didn't want it to turn out this way."

The corner of Judith's mouth turned up as she shifted her hand to interlace her fingers with his.

"Me, too," she replied. "You sure you're okay with this?"

Joe nodded.

_But I'm not happy lying to you…._

"How about we talk more about this after everyone leaves?" he asked.

_That'll give me more time to decide if I want to tell you the whole story or not…._

He saw Judith's gaze dart to where her guests were clustered around the food. When she looked back to Joe, her expression held a touch of guilt.

"I guess you're not the only one who didn't talk things over with someone first," she admitted. "You don't mind all this, do you?"

"Of course not," Joe said.

_Hell, yes I do… I'd rather be licking my wounds and complaining to you and Ed… except I shouldn't…. so this is probably a good thing…._

"And," he added as he reached for his walker, "we should join them before they eat all the good stuff."

After plates had been filled and emptied, and glasses had been filled, drained, and filled again, the assembled detectives found seats on Joe's furniture and floor so they could begin reading the story bannered on the cover of Wednesday's Ledger. After a brief history lesson from Munch about "the bad old days of non-union sweat shops where lectors would distract the workers from the horrific pace and horrendous conditions by reading the daily newspaper to them," Donna began to read.

Stabler and Benson had positioned themselves on rosewood dining chairs by the bar. From her seat, Olivia could see every face in the room.

_I know what's in the article Wilks wrote… I know what Sgt. Young, the commissioner's aide, told all of us on Monday—the official version from when the First Dep was still missing… I know what we all decided at the Tow Pound to stay quiet about the fact that serial attackers tend to start with weaker victims, which makes it unbelievable that Beale jumped from consensual S&M sex to drug-enabled rape of only one subordinate before targeting Don.… Wilks better be one hell of a writer to sell this…. _

When Donna reached the part where Fontana had discovered the Sex Crimes bureau chief enjoying the bondage facilities at the Crooked Oak Lodge, Olivia noted that Judith carefully avoided looking at her fiancé while that scene was described. A elbow nudge against her arm told her that Elliot had picked up the same detail.

"Yeah," she whispered, "wish I knew how Joe squared that with her."

"Maybe that big-ass diamond had something to do with it."

Liv smiled at her partner's reply then returned to her thoughts.

_Wilks is laying everything out in chronological order… but this part of the story is straight-forward… we haven't gotten to the part where the lying starts…._

Loudon took a break to refresh her gin-and-tonic and Couch took her place as reader. He covered the timeline from when Arthur Branch tied Fontana's story to the faxes asking for his shooting review to Cragen's suspicions about Beale and then decided it was enough to merit a search of Beale's co-op.

_Wilks telescoped all of those events, but it's close enough to the truth… what's missing is Elliot's and my interviews of Beale's previous victims: Randy Blais, Jim Stephanos, Keith Schmidt… three of the fourteen victims Richardson is trying to protect… I'm not one to pray, but I really hope, for their sakes, this works…._

Olivia listened as Couch described how she found a recording of Beale's attack on Marc Newman and how that discovery triggered a warrant for Beale's arrest. Next to Liv, Elliot shifted in his chair as though he were suddenly uncomfortable.

_Me, too… I really don't want to hear this part—not at all… and we're among friends… no one will blame us if we duck out…._

Olivia cleared her throat, causing Couch to pause his reading to look at her.

"Guys," she said, "I'm going to check out the terrace for a few minutes. I'll be back."

She stood up. Next to her Elliot jumped to his feet.

"I'll go with you," he announced. "Might be terrace snakes or something out there."

No one, as far as Olivia could see, looked askance at their leaving. Most nodded as though they understood. Munch was the only one who spoke.

"I've heard ninjas are a problem around here—right, Joe?"

"Yeah," Fontana added. "No snakes above the twentieth floor, but there was a ninja sighting about a week ago."

Someone—Olivia guessed it was Fin—snorted a laugh as she and Elliot walked out onto the terrace. Elliot slid the door shut behind them. Traffic noises from West Street and Battery Place were lost in the rush of wind coming off the Upper Bay. The wind also hid the sound of Couch's voice retelling how Cragen had been trapped by Beale in his kitchen.

Elliot went to the railing and leaned on it, his elbows supporting his weight.

"Nice night," he said.

Olivia joined him.

"Yes, it is."

After a few seconds spent with the two of them looking at the lights of the New Jersey shoreline, Elliot spoke again.

"Thanks for getting us out of there. Much as I like Jerry, that's one story I don't want to hear him tell."

"Me, too. How long do you think we need to stay out here?"

Elliot shrugged one shoulder then said, "Until we see a ninja—that or we want another drink."

Olivia had left hers half-finished by her chair.

_Not really interested in alcohol tonight… I need to decompress… process everything that's happened… and is about to happen… lots of changes coming… new captain, Couch as sergeant… Cragen as precinct commander… and the biggest one, if El really does it…._

She turned to her partner.

"You really thinking about transferring?"

Elliot kept his attention on the Jersey lights, but she could see him smile at her question.

"Talk about will power," he replied. "You went a whole shift before you asked me if I meant what I said."

"Well, do you?"

His smile tightened, but seconds passed before Elliot shifted his position until he faced her.

"Back in July," he finally said, "both Munch and Dr. Jackson told me I should step back from the job—that Kathy and the kids needed me more than SVU did. It took me a while, but I finally realized the world won't end if I move Kathy and my family up on my priority list. Right now, I'm wondering if I can do that and stay with SVU."

"Well, old habits die hard," Olivia told him. "Do you think not being lead any more is enough of a change?"

"I dunno. If it isn't, I'm thinking about putting in for Queens Homicide. I know the CO there."

"A hook always helps."

"Yep."

She felt the weight of his gaze in the silence that followed.

_He's wondering what I think about this… I think it reeks, but he's finally getting things worked out with Kathy… and it's not like he's the only SV detective in the city… he's just one of the best… judging from his expression, I really ought to say something… probably something supportive… and "This sucks" isn't going to cut it…._

Olivia drew in a deep breath.

"Well…" she said, stretching the syllable until it almost snapped, "I can't say I like the thought of working with someone else, but who am I to speak against the suggestions of your shrink—let alone the highly esteemed Detective John Munch."

A snort of laughter exploded from her partner.

"Someday, I'm going to have to tell you how he persuaded me," he told her. "It involves ski lifts and bourbon."

Olivia held her face in a perfect deadpan.

"Oh, I definitely want to hear how Munch got you drunk on a lift chair."

Her partner's eyes widened as his jaw dropped.

"C'mon, Liv," he sputtered. "It was nothing like that. He was telling me about him on a ski lift."

She nodded, her half-smile letting him know she was only pretending to believe him.

"Stabler, your secret is safe with me. Shall we head back inside?"

"Yeah, right."

Elliot punctuated his sentence with a flourish of his hand to indicate the terrace door. Olivia took it as an invitation and led the way.

_Time to return to the commissioner's fairy tale… but I'm holding you to your promise, Stabler… we're going to talk about this again—your transfer—not the ski lift…._


	47. The Bulldog Edition: Part Two

_First Dep:_ The First Deputy Commissioner, second after the Police Commissioner in the official NYPD hierarchy. In this story, the First Dep is Anthony Balzano (deceased)

_FDC:_ The First Deputy Commissioner

_Sidebar: _a newspaper article that amplifies a topic or explains a subject related to the main article

_Izzie Cortale: _Isadore Cortale, the lieutenant taking Anita Van Buren's spot at Manhattan Homicide

_JavaJones__: _this universe's version of Starbucks®

_CV:_ short for curriculum vitae—the law version of a resume

_P.A.:__ "Professional Association," a _corporation formed by professionals such as lawyers, engineers, dentists, and medical doctors.

_DCPI_: Deputy Commissioner for Public Information, the head of the NYPD's PR department

_Chief of Department_: the highest ranking uniformed member of the NYPD and in charge of daily operations

Blackberry® is trademarked.

_NYPDBS_: a fictitious on-line forum for critics of the NYC police department

_Memorial Wall:_ The NYPD Police Memorial is in Battery Park (lower Manhattan)

Even though it may seem so, this story isn't finished yet.

Events in this story move faster than they would in Real Life. Procedures in this story are designed to reflect the needs of the story, not the realities of the NYPD or the DA's office. For a change, "damn" is the worst thing anyone in this chapter says.

Residence of Joseph Fontana  
17 Battery Place, Manhattan  
18 August (Wednesday) 2:07 a.m.

When Elliot and Olivia returned from the terrace, they found Chester had taken over the reading from Couch. Lake paused while they took their seats then he asked if they had collared any ninjas.

"Nope," Elliot replied. "Guess they all took the night off."

"How far have you gotten?" Olivia asked.

"Almost finished," Chester told her. "The Commissioner announced the recovery of the First Dep's body and he's explaining Balzano's involvement with Beale to the media. Looks like another half-dozen paragraphs until the end."

Ed Green looked up from the paper he was holding.

"Then there's a long sidebar about the computer glitch that ate all of Joe's complaints and how Balzano used it to get him canned. I'll read that if no one minds."

Olivia saw Fontana's hand go up.

"I hate to be a wet blanket," he announced, "but I don't have another hour of listening in me. Okay if I tell you what it says once Lake finishes?"

After everyone agreed, Chester resumed his reading.

"'I don't know what Beale had on the FDC," Richardson said when asked by reporters after his formal statement. "I do know it was enough to force him to ruin Detective Fontana's career and put him in harm's way. It was enough to make him assist with Beale's attack on Captain Cragen. It drove him to forget his oath to the people of New York City and to the men and women who served under him. It made him ignore every policy and procedure set in place to keep us honest, and it left his memory and reputation stained almost beyond belief."

A follow-up question asked if Anthony Balzano would get a police funeral with the usual honors and ceremony. The commissioner shook his head.

"The Balzano family is planning a private internment. There will be a memorial for him next week. We'll remember the many years of service he gave the department, both on the streets and in the administrative trenches. We'll remember the good he did, and we'll try to understand and forgive the wrongs he was forced to commit."

The final question taken by the commissioner asked if the announced reorganization would be postponed because of this scandal. Again the commissioner shook his head.

"We can't let evil triumph," he said, "not if we're to keep this city safe. We have to keep striving to better our ability to protect and to serve no matter what gets thrown at us. The reorg will go forward as planned,"

Chester folded the newspaper then laid it on the table next to his chair.

"That's all he wrote," he told the assembled detectives. "Any thoughts?"

Olivia listened as everyone weighed in.

'_Talk about a perfect storm' from Couch… Donna and Fin settled for 'Damn…' Chester's shaking his head—he just read it to us and he still can't believe it… Munch began a rant about the inadequate controls in place to keep the brass in line… for once, no one told him to shut up… we all know how Beale and Balzano used their positions to their advantage… sure, Balzano was black-mailed first, but he had plenty of other options and he went after Don anyway…._

She noted that no one who knew any of the truth behind the Ledger's story had said a word.

_Fontana is playing with the arm of his chair—looks like he's fretting about something… Judith giving us her blankest expression… maybe she knows what's bugging Joe and doesn't want to let on.… _

Olivia carefully kept her own expression calm as she checked on her partner.

_Shoulders hunched… he's looking at the floor… Wilks didn't mention how the entire squad missed seeing what Beale was doing, but Elliot knows how badly we blew it…._

She then looked at the one wild card in the room: Detective Ed Green.

_He's eyeing all of us in turn… definitely suspicious… either he suspects a cover-up or he's judging us for not catching on to Beale sooner… if so, screw him… we've got enough guilt as it is…._

When Munch paused to breathe, Green cleared his throat. Next to Olivia, Elliot stiffened while she gritted her teeth and braced herself.

_I really hope Ed wants to know where the bathroom is…._

"I hate to bring this up," Green told the group, "but I know the Bronx DA had a hand in what was done to Joe."

He held up the copy of the Ledger he was holding.

"There's nothing here about Martinez, and there's nothing in Joe's sidebar about it, neither. Don't tell me he's getting off scot-free."

Olivia heard a _hiss_ of breath from her partner, a sigh of relief that she matched.

"Oh, I highly doubt it," she told Green. "I can't give you the details, but I know Arthur Branch is none too happy about Martinez."

"Jerry probably ran out of space or time to cover it," Elliot added. "The way Branch sounded, I wouldn't be surprised if Martinez announced a sudden need to spend more time with his family."

Several people chuckled at the euphemism for a forced resignation, but Joe's response was a growl. Green glanced at him then he nodded.

"I know, bro," he told Joe. "He don't deserve a cushy retirement, but that's politics. What can you do?"

Olivia noted how hard Fontana glared back at his partner.

"Maybe I should run for office," he replied. "Make everyone toe the line and serve the people instead of their own damned selves."

"Right," Green shot back, "you against the bureaucracy. That I got to see."

"Well, I just might," Fontana snapped back at him. "Gotta do something with my time now that I'm retired."

"Retired?"

The shock in Munch's voice drew Olivia's attention to him. The older man was staring gape-mouthed at Fontana. Joe replied with a half-hearted shrug as though it was a minor deal to him.

"Did Richardson force you out?" John demanded. "I've heard he's using his reorg to get rid of everyone who disagrees with him or can't hack his 'twenty-first century police work.'"

John put air quotes and a sneer on the phrase. Olivia saw Joe flinch then Munch pointed his finger at Fontana's face.

"You need to talk to your rep, Joe, and—"

Joe waved away Munch's suggestion.

"It wasn't Richardson," he replied. "It was my doctor. Seems I'm not gonna heal enough to get back on the streets so I put in my papers. Might as well get it over with."

Munch peered sternly at Fontana.

"Are you sure?"

Fontana met his stare and replied, "Sure a rain at an outdoor wedding—ouch!"

Judith's elbow drew back from his arm. Fontana began to rub the contact point.

"Okay, okay," he told Judith. "Next time, how about you sit by the arm with the cast?"

The two shared a grin then Joe said to Munch, "Unless you know a way to grow new fingers, I'm officially retired. Wilkes included that fact in his story about me—last couple of paragraphs."

Green chuckled as he turned to the sidebar in the Ledger.

"No one's going to read that far, Joe," he said. "They'll hit the technical explanation about how the computer ate your complaints then give up."

"Fine with me," Joe told him. "Sooner it all blows over, the happier I'll be. You guys want the story or would another round of drinks and a change in subject suit everyone better?"

Olivia turned to Elliot.

"I'm all for a refill," she said. "How about you?"

_Back me up, partner… it's this or we chew on Beale and Balzano all night…._

Elliot held up his empty glass.

"I'll take another beer. John, you need a hand with the bar?"

While Munch and Stabler manned the bar, Olivia collected empty plates and newspapers.

_Out of sight, out of mind… I'm going to do my damnedest to shift the conversation to the reorg… see if we can pump Fontana and Green for the scoop about Van Buren…._

The tactic worked. With little prompting, both detectives began to share stories about their CO's habits and her command style. Olivia liked what she heard.

_Tough, fair, and compassionate… willing to stand up for her people—and she'll bend the rules when the situation calls for it… sounds like we're getting exactly what we need… and what our victims need…._

She checked the reactions of the other SV detectives.

_They all seem as pleased as I am… good… maybe things will finally get back to normal…._

Later, after the SV detectives had said their 'Good-nights' and headed home, Joe, Ed, and Judith moved onto the terrace. Praesidium operative Bradley gave the exterior a quick look-over before approving the venture outside. He also turned out the terrace and interior lights for security reasons, leaving the terrace lit only by the aircraft and architectural lights at the peak of 17 Battery Place, barely bright enough to keep Joe from stumbling as he settled into a chair.

Judith shoved a table aside and pulled a chair to Joe's right side for her seat. Ed stretched out on a chaise lounge on Joe's left. A contented _hmmm_ from him was followed by a question.

"If I fall asleep, can you just leave me here until morning?"

"Sure," Joe replied, "but I'm not cleaning the pigeon crap off you."

"Have you ever?"

A loud sigh from Judith cut off their partnerly sparring.

"I thought you wanted to talk about something," she said to Joe.

Fontana turned toward her. Darkness obscured her expression, but the tone of her voice and the sounds made by Ed as he sat up in the chaise warned him that both were very interested in what he might have to say.

_Okay—time to decide… do I tell them everything or do I lie? _

He quickly weighed the two options and made his decision.

"Other than I'm pissed that I'm a civilian now," he replied, "no, not really—well, that and I'm sorry about the way you guys learned about it."

"So…."

The way Ed drew out the word warned of his suspicions.

"… Munch's claim that the commissioner went after you is just Munch being Munch?"

Joe forced his lips into a smile.

"If Richardson had plans to force me out," he told Ed, "I didn't give him the chance to try it."

_Which is almost true… and I'm damn glad they can't see me sweating through this…._

"That's great for you, Joe," Ed told him, "but you retiring sticks me with Detective Beauty Queen. I ain't too thrilled about that."

_He's grousing… that means he believes me… great… I just successfully lied to my partner…now, to make him happy about it…._

"Izzie Cortale owes me a favor or two," Joe told Ed. "I'll call and convince him to assign you to someone else."

"Anyone but Bradley," Ed replied. "No sense in trading one pain in the ass for another."

"You referring to me?"

Joe glared through the dark to where he knew Ed was grinning at him.

"Thanks, pal," he said. "Good to know I'm appreciated."

"Oh, you are, bro—you are."

The warmth in Ed's voice was almost enough to wash away the bad taste left by Joe's lies.

_That's one down… now, to see how Judith took this…._

Before Joe could check, he saw Ed get to his feet. He then crossed the distance to Joe's side and put his hand on Joe's shoulder.

"Place won't be the same without you," he said, his voice catching on the last word. "Wish things had turned out different."

"Me, too. You taking off?"

"Yeah. It's late."

"Don't be a stranger."

Ed chuckled.

"Oh, I'll remember my way here, especially after seeing the spread Judith lays out when she entertains. Judith, I'm grateful for your hospitality tonight."

Joe could hear the smile in her voice as she replied, "Thank you, Ed. You're always welcome here."

"I know. You two have a good night."

Joe turned in Ed's direction, but Green already was heading for the terrace door.

"I'll talk to Izzie before Thursday," he called out. "Let him know he'd better take good care of you."

Ed raised a hand in acknowledgement before he departed. Joe watched him make his way to the front door, stopping only long enough to nod to Bradley before leaving.

_Probably feels like I do… this isn't how I wanted to end things, either…._

The unaccustomed tightness in his throat made Joe swallow hard.

_Must be the late night air… haven't been out here in so long, I'm not used to it…._

Joe settled back in his chair. The only sounds were ambient city noise, filtered by distance and the terrace wall, and the rustle of fabric against fabric when Judith shifted her position. After a few minutes, time Joe spent wondering how to find out if Judith had bought his story, she finally spoke up.

"A question, Joe."

_Sounds like a warning that I won't like the question…._

"Yeah?"

"Did you tell us the whole story, or only what you're allowed to say?"

Joe froze in his chair, feeling too much like a deer in headlights for comfort.

_I was right… I don't like the question… and I honestly don't know what to tell her…._

He was still trying to decide when Judith spoke again.

"On second thought, I'm so damn sick of the whole mess, I'm not sure I even want to know."

He heard her chair scrape against the terrace as she moved closer to him.

"Whichever it was, are you okay with it?"

The concern in her voice tightened Joe's throat again.

"No," he said, "I am not. However, I did get those complaints wiped out. I got my name cleared. I'm keeping my firearms permit, and I can finally ditch the bodyguards—not that I'm knocking the job they did. Plus—"

Joe reached out his right hand and groped until he connected with Judith's hand.

"I got you. All in all, things could be a lot worse."

Residence of Alexandra Borgia  
18 August 8:15 a.m.

After being escorted from the DA's office, Alex Borgia spent Monday evening in her third floor walk-up, sitting in her tan overstuffed chair with an afghan crocheted by her grandmother wrapped around her. Inside its comfort, she replayed her firing, finding new ways to justify her actions and keep her job with each mental repeat. It was satisfying for a while, but self-pity was not Alex's style. By midnight, she had decided the best revenge was a short job search that led to a better position.

_I've got some savings… Jack never gave me enough time to have a life so there wasn't much opportunity to spend my paycheck… not that I want to let things slide for too long—I like my apartment and I like not having bill collectors bugging me…._

Alex spent Tuesday networking, touching bases with people who might connect her to employment. When asked why she was looking, she told the truth, mostly.

_Anyone who knows Arthur Branch knows it's his way or the highway… many of them dislike his politics… they see standing up to Arthur as a badge of honor… I had no problem making it seem like I was let go over a simple difference of opinion… Carolyn even called me 'righteous and noble' before offering to buy me dinner so we can brainstorm some ideas… I'm not noble or righteous… maybe I felt that way at first, but Jack is right—this wasn't my decision to make… still, there's nothing wrong with putting a positive spin on my situation…._

It wasn't until late afternoon, after she already had told her version of the truth to several dozen friends and associates, that Alex remembered the article Wilks was writing.

_Crap… that's exactly what I don't need…._

The knowledge that a description of her firing would be delivered to half the doorsteps in Manhattan the next morning dogged Alex's dinner with her friend.

_But it didn't keep me from taking the contact info Carolyn had for me… the more people who see my CV, the sooner I'm employed again…maybe that article won't matter… my dad always says, 'If you dance fast enough, no one can see the holes in your shoes….'_

Wednesday morning, Alex woke up determined to ignore the Ledger problem.

_Most attorneys read the NY Times… it's the paralegals and the law clerks who buy the Ledger… they don't have a say in hiring… I might be okay… I hope I'll be okay…._

Her usual morning ritual had been to dress for work then hit the nearby JavaJones for a _latte_ and a Danish.

_Breakfast should be fun… otherwise, why get up in the morning?_

That morning, Alex dressed in jeans and a plain gray T-shirt before making a half-pot of coffee. While it brewed, she filled a bowl with generic cocoa-flavored cereal.

_But frugal can be fun, too… at least, I'm going to tell myself that until I believe it…._

She fetched a carton of milk from her fridge and was about to pour it on her cereal when she saw a business envelope slide under her apartment's door.

"What the—?"

She quickly set the milk down and went to the door to pick up the envelope.

_Thin—maybe one or two sheets of paper… my name written on the front… return address is 'The Law Firm of Randolph J. Dworkin, P.C.'_

Alex tossed the envelope onto her coffee table then she unlatched the locks on her door. No one was in the hall, but she could hear footsteps on the stairs below her. Alex leaned over the railing and saw the principal of said law firm, dressed in his usual rumpled suit, taking the stairs two at a time.

"Randy!"

The sound of his name froze Dworkin on the stairs. He jerked his head up and met Alex's gaze with a guilty smile.

"Morning, Ms. Borgia," he called to her. "I figured you'd be sleeping in. I hope I didn't wake you."

"You'd have to do something noisy like knock on my door. Why didn't you?"

"I just needed to drop that off. No need to bother you."

"Odd deliveries always bother me. What is it—a bill?"

The look of horror on Dworkin's face matched his quick denial.

"Why would I send you a bill? No, it's a—look, it's awkward yelling up at you. Mind if I come up there?"

Alex considered his request for a moment then said, "Not at all. You want some coffee and a bowl of cocoa-whatevers?"

He grinned at her then said, "I'd kill for a bowl of cocoa-whatevers."

When the two of them were seated in Alex' sitting area, mugs on the coffee table between them and bowls of cereal balanced on their laps, she asked again about the envelope.

"Oh, it's some contact information for someone I know," he replied. "I told her about your predicament, and she said she'd really like to talk to you."

Alex set her cereal down then opened the envelope.

"Cynthia Myers-Soames, a partner at Peebles, Myers, Dworkin, and Pettit," she read aloud from the single sheet inside it. "What's this, Randy? Some sort of handout?"

"Hardly," he replied. "The Dworkin listed in the letterhead is my aunt Sofya, who tells me at every opportunity that I'm impertinent, disrespectful and a disgrace to the legal profession."

Dworkin shrugged off the harsh words with a forced smile.

"Which is why I sneaked past her office to talk to Cynthia about the firm's current openings."

He placed his cereal on the table and leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees for support.

"Peebles, Myers, Dworkin, and Pettit is a family law firm. According to Cynthia, they've seen a huge uptick in criminal cases involving children, mostly parental abuse and abduction. They're looking for someone with prosecutorial experience to help them better represent the kids. I figured you'd be perfect for them so I talked you up with Cynthia. She's very interested—that is, if you're also interested."

Alex pondered his suggestion, her gaze aimed at the paper in her hands to keep from looking at Dworkin.

"It's partner-track," he added, "and they're good to their people."

The hopefulness in his voice caught Alex's attention. She put the paper down and stared straight at him.

"You seem awfully eager for me to go after this, Randy. What's the catch?"

He jerked back as if stung by her words.

"No catch, Alex. It's just that Jack fired you because you helped my client. I feel a little responsible."

Alex shook her head to reassure him.

"I did what I did because I thought I was right. Maybe I wasn't, but you—you and Fontana—had nothing to do with my decision. Okay?"

He smiled back at her then picked up his bowl and ate a heaping spoonful of cereal.

"You know," he said, the words muffled by chewing, "these are the best cocoa-whatever I've ever had."

Alex chuckled as she reached for her own bowl.

"I slaved over them for hours."

"It shows. They're all crunchy and soggy and chocolately."

He ate another heaping spoonful, waiting until he had swallowed before speaking.

"You going to call Cynthia?"

Alex glanced at the contact information again.

_It's not a bad fit…._

"Definitely," she said with an emphatic nod, "and thank you, Randy. I really appreciate this."

Dworkin grinned at her then he said, "And, afterwards, maybe you and I could get some—"

Alex braced herself.

_He's going to say sushi again… I really don't like sushi… it's not the raw fish—it's the rice… it's all sticky…. _

"Actually," he continued, "I don't know to suggest. Sushi? Hungarian? Nouveau Polynesian-Irish fusion?"

Alex shook her head at the first suggestion, made a "Meh-maybe" frown for the second, and giggled at the third one.

"Not really ringing the bell with those, am I?" Dworkin asked. "So, how about a thick steak, medium-rare, with a baked potato the size of Idaho, and a Caesar salad that Julius himself would scarf down in an instant? Does that sound like a meal you'd like to share with me?"

_Sounds like a meal that will stick to my ribs… and save me from needing to buy breakfast and lunch the next day…._

She greeted the suggestion with another emphatic nod. Dworkin responded with a shy smile as though her acceptance had surprised him.

"Great," he told her. "You call Cynthia then call me and let me know when to make the reservations."

"I'll do that," she replied.

Dworkin set his now-empty bowl on the table then got to his feet.

"Great," he repeated, "and my apologies, but I have to be going. Thanks for the cocoa-whatevers. They made my day."

Alex grinned at the compliment.

_I knew he could be silly… I didn't realize he could be fun…._

"Next time," she told him, "I'll do fruity loopy thingies. They're another of my specialties."

Dworkin raised an eyebrow.

"Alexandra Borgia, attorney-at-law and gourmet cereal chef. Who would have guessed?"

He chuckled for a moment then asked, "Not to change the subject, but have you see today's Ledger?"

The cereal went sour in her stomach as Alex shook her head. Dworkin's grin did not waver.

"I have, and there's no mention of you being fired anywhere in the article. That should make interviewing a little easier on you."

Alex sighed her relief at the news.

_Randy's right about that… I'm so glad Jack and Arthur aren't the vindictive types…_

"And on that cheerful note," he continued, "I really have to leave. My unjustly accused clients are awaiting my presence at court."

Alex started to stand up, but Dworkin waved her back.

"You finish your breakfast," he told her. "I can find my way out—see? It's right over here."

He crossed the five feet between him and the door then he pointed at it.

"Good luck with Cynthia and remember—we're on for steak afterward."

Alex smiled to show she really was looking forward to the date.

"As soon as something's set up," she replied, "I'll call you."

Dworkin beamed at her as he opened the door.

"I'm hoping this will be the start of a beautiful friendship. Till then."

He left too quickly for Alex to say "Good-bye."

_Almost like he didn't want to jinx anything… what a odd man he is… but he brought me a lead on a great possibility… and he made me laugh… God, I needed both of those today…._

She eyed the contact info she had received the night before and then at the paper Randy had given her.

_I hate to sound eager… but Randy did say they were very interested…._

She snatched up her cell phone and called the law firm's number.

"Alexandra Borgia for Cynthia Myers-Soames, please…. Ms Myers-Soames? I'm Alex Borgia. Randolph Dworkin suggested I call you…."

Residence of Donald and Anita Van Buren  
18 August 8:55 a.m.

"Mom, the button on my shirt fell off!"

"Mom, I can't find my dress shoes!"

Anita ignored both calls of distress, knowing her husband would handle them. Sure enough, his voice boomed down the hall to their shared bedroom.

"Rick, put on another shirt. Stefan, find them or go barefoot. We leave in five minutes."

She grinned to herself as she turned back to the Ledger article she was reading.

_A perfectly legitimate computer program that someone forgot to delete—of all the possible explanations for Fontana's complaints, that one has to be the weirdest... it's also so perfectly Fontana—too impossible to believe, but it ends up being true…._

Anita folded the paper and set it aside.

_Shame about him retiring… now that he's not my problem anymore, I can think that… and he better not hang around SVU distracting his fiancée and the rest of my people… if he can't find something better to do, I'll find it for him…._

Donald's voice called to her from outside the kitchen.

"I think the boys are ready, Nita. How about you?"

She patted the pocket of her uniform jacket, making sure she had a spare hankie.

"I'm good to go," she replied.

_Starting today, I show them what I can do when I get the proper tools and support… Don Cragen's leaving me some big shoes to fill, but I'm ready… damn, but I'm ready…._

Office of the Commissioner  
One Police Plaza  
18 August 9:27 a.m.

_It worked… by God, it worked… no questions about unnamed victims… no accusations that we're hiding something… only a lot of gnashing of teeth over Wilks getting the exclusive… every one of those reporters had to cite the Ledger's story… reporters hate that…._

Tim Richardson, dressed that day in uniform, slouched in his desk chair, his legs propped up on an open drawer. A mug of coffee, his fourth, steamed in his hand. Across the room, Terence Fulton, Chief of Department, sprawled on the couch. His uniform jacket was slung over the arm of the couch by him, and his hands cradled his mug as though it held diamonds, not caffeine.

"Damn fine job, Tim," he told his boss. "You had them so bound up over Wilks' exclusive that they didn't even think about picking apart the story. Even Roland here commented on the lack of questions asked."

At the other end of the couch, Roland Crutchfield, Richardson's DCPI, nodded as he thumbed his Blackberry. His gray suit coat was unbuttoned, but everything else, from hair to shoe laces, was precisely dapper and in place.

_Roland never relaxes… it's like he expects a reporter to stick a camera and mic in his face at any moment… while Terence and I are congratulating ourselves, he's checking the online news sites to see if our wall around Beale's victims is holding firm…._

"Let's hope it stays that way," Crutchfield added. "If we can get through Balzano's memorial service next Thursday, we should be good—looks like NYPDBS has over seventeen pages of posts on Wilks' story. Not one of them questions Beale's jump from consensual partners to Newman and Cragen."

Richardson grimaced at the name of the complaint forum.

"Thanks for wading through that to find out."

"That's why I'm paid the big bucks," Roland said, his gaze still on his Blackberry. "I'm also getting queries about Balzano's memorial service. Unless you object, I'm planning for the Memorial Wall, you and two other eulogies, bagpipes and band. The focus will be on Tony's career accomplishments; we'll give his death and the events leading up to it a touch of 'more in sorrow than in anger.' Sound okay to you?"

Richardson nodded, but Fulton answered the question.

"Yeah, just enough to put the guy to rest without making him a saint."

Crutchfield thumbed some keys.

"Got it. Tim, I'll have your eulogy by Friday for you to go over. You two ready for the promotion ceremony?"

Richardson checked his watch.

"Looks like time we headed that way," he replied. "You released the bios of those being promoted?"

"Yes, and I've highlighted four of them: Sgt. Al-Kandari, Captain Van Buren, Deputy Inspector LaRocque, and Chief Van Laarhoven. With any luck, we can drive Beale and Balzano off the front pages with their smiling faces."

Fulton rose to his feet.

"Can't wait to shake Anita's hand and call her 'Captain,'" he said as he grabbed his jacket. "She waited too damn long for her bars."

"They all have," Richardson replied, "but today is finally their day."


	48. The Bulldog Edition: Part Three

Author's note:

"If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don't put it there." From Gurlyand's "Reminiscences of A. P. Chekhov", in _Teatr i iskusstvo_ 1904, No 28, 11 July, p. 521.'

_Rob Dolan:_ (Law & Order season 16 episode "Ghosts") husband of Amy (died of cancer July, 2005) and father of Sarah (raped and murdered by Johnny Zona and Jimmy Flood in 1995.) Fontana and his partner Salone investigated that case; both strongly believed that Dolan killed his daughter, but they failed to find conclusive evidence. A deathbed confession ten years later by one of the real perpetrators reopened the case and led Fontana and Green to the other culprit, Johnny Zona, who was convicted of second-degree murder. Amy Dolan died of cancer during the second investigation. All this is canon.

So I don't burden the reader with endless exposition, here is my uncanonical version of Rob Dolan's life after Zona's conviction: Dolan sold the home seen in "Ghosts." He then bought a one-bedroom condo in Park Slope within walking distance of his one-agent insurance office. Dolan's life is narrow and solitary, the result of his grief and of the suspicion and hatred he endured during the decade he spent as the prime suspect in his daughter's rape and murder. As Dolan described it on the stand at Zona's trial, "When that man strangled my daughter, he murdered my wife and me. I may still be breathing, but I've been dead for ten years, three weeks, and four days." (quote from the episode)

_Salone: _ Joe Fontana's partner at the time of the Sarah Dolan murder; they worked the case together. Why two Brooklyn Homicide detectives were investigating a child rape and murder in Manhattan is not explained in canon so I'm ignoring the anomaly. Since Salone is mentioned in the past tense during the episode, I'm assuming he is dead in 2005 (although zombies improve everything, there are none in this story.)

_Rocco's:_ pizza restaurant from the first chapter of _Prey and Predator_

_Glass knife: _check_ /About_Glass_ _for info. The quoted instructions come from an advertisement reproduced at this site.

_The sword held by Justice:_ most depictions of Justice have her holding a scale and a double-edged sword

_A terrible swift sword: _from the first verse of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" (…He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword….)

_He beareth not the sword in vain: _the full quote is Romans 13:4 (King James Version) Of course, the verse refers to government officials who enforce the law, not Rob Dolan.

__

Characters curse in this chapter.

Events in this story move faster than they would in Real Life. Procedures in this story are designed to reflect the needs of the story, not the realities of the NYPD or the DA's office.

Residence of Robert Dolan  
220 Fifteenth Street, Park Slope, Brooklyn  
Wednesday, 18 August 8:15 a.m.

Six days a week, Rob Dolan's morning routine consisted of a shower, a shave, shirt, suit and tie then a three-block walk to a bagel shop for breakfast. Another three-block walk took him to his Park Slope office for a day of insurance sales, customer service, and paperwork. On Sundays, Dolan arose later to attend the 10 a.m. service at All Saints Episcopal Church before working the afternoon away at his office. Evenings were spent in his one-bedroom condo, a solitary supper of take-out eaten with the shades drawn then a book or magazine to occupy his attention until bedtime.

_I dumped all my so-called friends after the trial… the few who called to say they were sorry for believing I had raped and killed my own daughter never bothered to call again… the ones who didn't call—well, I'm better off putting my energy into my work… it at least pays the bills… I dumped the papers and the TV after one too many reporters tried telling the world how I felt—how the hell would they know? Was their daughter raped and murdered? Did their wife forced to run a gauntlet of reporters every time she left her home? Did they lose their reputation, their career, their standing in society? Did their co-op board tell them to move out because the publicity was killing property values? The damn board acted like I planned to have my daughter killed in their precious building… it killed Amy to be forced from her home… it killed her to see reporters poking their microphones in my face to ask, "Hey, Dolan—did you rape your daughter?" It killed her to get the calls—anonymous hate spewing every time the phone rang… it killed her to see the mobs demanding that I be arrested, tried, convicted and imprisoned without one shred of evidence… and it killed her to have those two detectives—Salone and Fontana—hounding me with their questions, and their assumptions, and their suspicions—all of them false… it killed my Amy as surely as the cancer did…._

When Dolan had seen the newspaper report of Det. Salone's fatal heart attack six weeks after his retirement from the force, he noted the address of the funeral home and the times for visitation.

_He looked so natural—just like the conniving, lying bastard he was when he was alive… if there hadn't been so many people there, I'd have spat right in his embalmed face... I wanted to do the same to Fontana—I even went to the hospital where he was being treated… when I saw the police officer guarding his door, I turned and went back to my office… at least I got to see him wallowing in his pity at Rocco's… poor ex-detective Fontana… poor crippled, pain-ridden, disgraced ex-detective Fontana… you deserve all of it and more…._

That Wednesday morning, Dolan arrived at his office at 8:15 a.m. The delivery service had left the day's editions of the NY Times, the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, and the Ledger snugged into the corner by the entrance. He picked up the bundle before unlocking the door.

_Something for the clients to read while waiting for Charlene or me to help them…. Charlene reads the Ledger at lunchtime… and sometimes at her desk when she thinks I'm not looking…._

With that thought in mind, Dolan placed the other two newspapers on the table by the front window then unfolded the Ledger to put it on the reception desk.

_Just a subtle hint that I know what she's up to… usual lurid headline…_ "_SEX CRIMES B-CHIEF RAPED MEN_—_1st Dep for the Assist_…" _the First Dep is the man who fired Fontana… Balzano, I think… I hope he's not in trouble… man deserves a medal for dumping that trash…._

Dolan opened the paper and turned to the main article. The first few paragraphs confirmed his suspicion.

_Balzano is dead… suicide… blackmail…._

He scanned down the page then turned to the next one where the headline for the sidebar caught his attention.

_Disgraced Detective Cleared—Firing Forced by Beale…._

The paper shook in Dolan's hands as he read how the accidental use of a computer program had deleted every complaint made against Fontana, and how the First Deputy Commissioner used those missing complaints to fulfill an extortion demand from the Sex Crimes Bureau Chief.

_Fontana wasn't fired for cause… he should have been, but he was canned only because some pervert blackmailed Balzano… damn him… damn him and the pervert—may they both rot in hell…._

Dolan finished the sidebar, including the paragraph about Fontana's upcoming wedding. He then dropped the paper on Charlene's desk and staggered into his office, closing the door behind him.

_Detective Fontana's sins were hidden by computer error so all is forgiven… well, they're not forgiven by me… no sir, not ever by me… not after what he said about me… not after what he did to my Amy… when he reopened Sarah's murder case, he opened the flood gates again: reporters pounding on our door, DAs digging up our daughter, exposing and mutilating her body worse than her rapists did… Fontana made my wife's last days on earth a living hell…._

Dolan grabbed the edge of his desk, steadying himself as he shook with rage.

_My Amy stood by me… she believed in me… she and Sarah were my life… I am nothing without them… Fontana doesn't deserve a wife… he doesn't deserve happiness with her… I should stop it… ruin it for him… pay him back in kind…._

His gaze swept his office, searching for a tool to serve his purpose.

_Telephone—I can call the Ledger… let them know what Fontana did to us… and they'll ignore it the same way they did my protests about their reporters twelve years ago… I can call police headquarters—demand they reinstate my complaints against that lying glory-hound… and they'll tell me they can't charge or fire him—he'll already retired… I can call a lawyer—I did that the first time… lawyer told me I can sue, but there's no guarantee I can win… paperweight, stapler, desk lamp—why didn't I have something heavy in my hands that evening at Rocco's? Fontana was so busy feeling sorry for himself, I could have bashed his head in… but all I had was Rocco's take-out lasagna, so I left him wallowing in his self-pity… _

A item on his desk, a stainless steel letter opener partially hidden by the envelopes of the previous day's mail, caught Dolan's attention. He took the opener from under the pile, sliding it from its vinyl sheath as he did so.

_This might work…._

He thumbed the edge of the opener then its point.

_I couldn't slash his throat, but it is sharp enough for stabbing… but it won't do me any good… Fontana has bodyguards—the article said as much… I can't be the only one who hates the son of a bitch… I'm sure they're watching for someone like me …._

Dolan picked up the vinyl sheath to put the opener away. As he did so, another fact from the sidebar meshed with his hatred to tempt him with the seed of a plan.

_His fiancée won't be watching… she's never seen me… I could go to her police station… tell them I have information on one of her cases… walk up to her desk… no one would suspect I'm there to kill her…._

Dolan thumbed the letter opener a second time then he returned it to its sheath.

_I'd never get it through a metal detector… the courthouse has them—I went through one when I testified at Zona's trial… I'll bet the police stations have them, too … they need them… bad cops like Fontana guarantee people will try to even the score…_

He put the letter opener on top of the stack of mail then he pulled his chair from his desk and settled into it.

_So much for that idea… it was fun while it lasted…._

Through the closed door of his office, Dolan heard the outer door swing open. The _click_ of heels then the _thump_ of a purse hitting a desk told him that his part-time receptionist had arrived. With a sigh, he reached for his desk phone.

_Might as well get to work… the policies don't sell themselves…._

The morning hours passed as they always did: sales calls, follow-ups to messages left by customers and potential customers, the paperwork necessary to write policies on persons, property, possessions, and vehicles. Dolan tried to lose himself in the workday monotony, but the slim shape of the letter opener in its sheath kept drawing his mind from the tasks at-hand.

_To think Fontana will go home to a wife who loves him… when I go home every night to three empty rooms… if I only had a weapon able do the job… maybe a gun.… _

He imagined himself walking up to the fiancée, a loud _bang_, her falling to the pavement, Fontana's stricken expression when he learned of her death, the pleasure of knowing that the detective's pain now matched Dolan's own burden.

_Except I don't own a rifle or pistol… and I don't know how to buy one—legal or not…._

Dolan yanked his mind back to his work, but his gaze wandered back to the letter opener.

_Fontana was almost killed with a truck… I don't own a car, but Charlene does… I could borrow it… wait for his fiancée then run her over… but that would leave Charlene without transportation… she's not responsible for what Fontana did to me… better return Gene Martin's call about his certificate of insurance…._

He made it through that phone call, but the schemes inspired by the letter opener, some plausible, most outlandish, kept distracting him. Dolan considered a faked mugging while quoting coverage on a sailboat moored at Dykeman Marina, mulled a contract killing timed for the day of the wedding while pouring a cup of coffee from the pot by Charlene's desk, pondered a bomb made from plans obtained off the Internet while updating the auto policy of a man with twins newly turned sixteen, and weighed the idea of tampering with the brakes on the fiancée's car.

_Except I don't know anything about cars and brakes… or where to buy explosives… or how to hire a hit man—newspapers make it sound like most people end up hiring an undercover cop… and I'm certain Fontana's fiancée is younger and in better shape than I am—desk work does that to a man… she's probably some well-endowed, brain-dead bimbo blinded by Fontana's nonexistent charms… I know he likes them built—I saw him eyeing my Amy… he tried to hide it but I saw him… staring at her like he was picturing her naked…it wasn't enough for him to accuse me and lie about me—he wanted my wife, too… probably thought about whisking her away to that sex resort mentioned in that story… his filthy hands doing filthy things to my wife…._

The notes Dolan had taken about the twin's coverage crumpled as his hands tightened into fists.

_Find Fontana's fiancée… one thrust right between her breasts as payback for the obscene way he ogled my wife... then another for what he wanted to do to her… and another for lying about my Sarah and me… and another… and another… simple justice… I'm owed that… I had it with Fontana's firing… it stripped him of his badge, showed the world the conniving, lying bastard he really is… I need him in agony, alone and hopeless, ruined the way he ruined me…._

Dolan's gaze went back to the letter opener. This time, he saw a different, more suitable weapon.

_My mother had a bone one… it came from Sweden with my grandmother… sleigh and reindeer incised into the blade—a fine example of scrimshaw… I remember handling it as a boy… eight inches long… sturdy… men made their weapons from bone before they learned to work metal…._

His right hand curved as though around the haft of a bone knife.

_Smooth, hard, warm in my grip… solid enough to puncture a chest wall… I can see her eyes going wide with shock as the blade enters her… I yank it back and stab again… and again… her blood staining her blouse… hot on my hand… she falls back in her desk chair… she looks at me with the same emptiness that my Amy's eyes held when she passed… police grabbing me… shooting me… doesn't matter what I feel at that point… it's what Fontana feels that matters… if he feels even a portion of the cold lonely emptiness that fills my days and nights, dying will be worth it…._

Dolan checked his watch, the simple movement belying the ease with which he had crossed from hatred to blood-lust.

_Eleven-twenty… there's several curio shops in the neighborhood… one of them should have a selection of letter openers… I can hold them… handle them… see if they are a fit weapon for justice…. _

Dolan told his receptionist he was meeting a client for lunch and would return by one o'clock. He then walked along Fifteenth Street until he reached Herdon's Antiques, located between a pharmacy and a car service. The shop was narrow and deep, filled with long rows of antique furniture and display cases. The woman behind the cash register looked up from her romance novel to greet him.

"Can I help you find something?" she asked.

"No," he replied, "I'm just browsing."

He traversed the aisles, examining the contents of each table top and case.

_Lots of silverware: dinner knives, steak knives, butter knives, cheese servers, fish knives… Amy had I don't know how many sets of sterling flatware… she loved to host dinner parties… we sold them all to pay my legal expenses and her medical bills…._

Dolan continued his search.

_An ivory opener in a display of fountain pens… it looks too flimsy… a set of flint arrowheads found upstate… they look sharp enough, but I don't have the time or the skill to make handles for them… wooden opener—label reads 'Trench Art: 1917….'_

He paused to consider it, but decided the wood was too thin to withstand multiple thrusts.

_There's two more aisles here… and many more stores…._

It was Your Grandma's Closet, the third store Dolan searched, where he found what he wanted.

_Not an opener, but a cake knife… eight inches long… clear glass… Depression block-style, according to its label… in its original box—never used… no nicks or chips in its blade… and it is sharp, both edge and point …._

Dolan read the instructions that came with the knife: "I am as keen as a razor, ideal for slicing tomatoes, oranges, lemons, grapefruit, and especially constructed for separating the meaty parts of grapefruit from its rind… IDEAL FOR CAKE, PIES MERINGUE I will make an ideal bridge prize and I am sure your dear friends or neighbors will be delighted with my services."

He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade.

_Definitely razor-sharp… walk up behind Fontana's fiancée… a clear knife won't be noticed… a metal detector won't pick up on glass… draw the blade across her throat… a knife that can cut through grapefruit rind should sever flesh and windpipe… one strike—not three… one to pay Fontana back for all he did to me and mine…._

Dolan carefully folded the instructions and repackaged them with the knife in its box.

"I'll take this," he told the clerk as he handed her four twenties. "It's exactly what I was looking for."

He turned down the offer of a bag.

_No one will care if they see me carrying it down the street… it's only a fruit knife... one guaranteed to delight with its services…._

Dolan answered Charlene's question about his purchase with a simple "I needed a paperweight." He then apologized for making her late for her lunch while she grabbed her purse. As soon as she had left, he took a pen from the cup by her computer screen and wrote a message on her phone pad.

_Had to leave early… please lock up when you go… see you tomorrow…._

He then took the knife and the Ledger into his office, placing both on his desk before he locked his office door.

_If I'm quiet after Charlene gets back, she'll never realize I didn't leave… now, to find out where Fontana's fiancée works… second-to-last paragraph: "Judith Otten, a detective First Class with Manhattan SVU…" have to make this call before Charlene gets back…._

It took only a few moments to locate the address and phone number for the SV unit on the NYPD website. While he waited for his call to be answered, Dolan cradled the receiver on his shoulder then he took the glass knife from its box, testing its edge by sliding it through the center of an advertising circular. The ease with which it sliced the pamphlet in two brought a smile to his lips.

"Special Victims, Detective Larsen."

Dolan picked up one of the pamphlet halves and sliced it in half while he asked for Detective Otten.

"She won't be in until four o'clock. Would you like her voicemail?"

"No, I'll call back later. Thank you."

After hanging up, he admired the paper strips that had been the advertisement.

_Let's see what it will do to a renewal notice…._

By the time Dolan heard Charlene return from lunch, his desk was covered with strips and shreds of paper.

_Like Broadway after a ticker-tape parade… I saw the Rangers' Stanley Cup parade in '94 from my office window... nothing like tons of confetti to celebrate a win…._

He scooped up a double handful of the shreds and tossed them into the air.

_Here's to justice, pure and simple… hip, hip hooray…._

The paper fluttered to rest with the rest of the shreds littering his desk. Dolan brushed the ones that had landed on the knife aside so he could admire its effectiveness.

_Lovely knife… sharp and deadly…._

Dolan leaned back in his chair, slowly to keep it from creaking and attracting his receptionist's attention.

_Now, how to get it to where it will do the most good? __The Sixteenth Precinct is near Penn Station… that's about thirty or so minutes from here by subway…a cab would be faster but it's easier to be anonymous on public transportation… when I called, my agency's name probably came up on the phone display… no matter… I doubt that detective will bother remembering who called… if anything, he'll assume it was a sales call—nothing to flag me as a seeker of righteous retribution…._

He called to mind everything he knew or remembered about police stations.

_Cramped, poorly designed, crowded… if I wanted to be polite, I'd call it organized chaos, but it's anything but organized… if the NYPD were well-run, it would never allow a lying glory-hound like Fontana to have any form of authority… the confusion gets worse when they change shifts—people leaving early, people arriving late… four o'clock must be a shift change… I can slip in with the evening workers then find this Otten woman…._

His plan clarified as he considered his memories of being brought in for questioning by Salone and Fontana twelve years earlier.

_Detectives have desks…arranged in pairs by partner… desks have name plates… if I locate Otten's name plate, I'll have her desk… if I have her desk, I'll have her… the squadrooms I saw had multiple entrances—fire regs… I can come in whichever puts me behind that woman's chair… have the knife in my hand… who's going to notice a clear glass knife?_

He played the next steps over and over in his head, mentally rehearsing how he would wait until Fontana's fiancée was seated at her desk then he would walk up behind her, grab her hair, draw the knife across her throat, step back to let her body slump onto her desk then hold his hands high in surrender.

_I have no reason to run… nothing to run to… if I'm shot, I'll die knowing my last act guarantees Fontana a life filled with misery and loss… God knows the son of a bitch deserves it… now, run through it again… practice makes perfect….walk up behind Otten, the knife in my hand…._

Just before three p.m., the sounds of a chair scraping across the floor followed by footsteps then the swing of the outer door told him that Charlene had left for the day.

_Fifteen minutes until I need to leave… I should clean up this mess…._

Dolan leaned sideways until he could reach his waste basket. Bringing it level with his desk, he swept the shreds into the basket, leaving his desk bare of any and all paper.

_A clean sweep…a new broom sweeps clean… a new knife cuts keen—like the sword held by Justice…a terrible swift sword… __he beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to __execute__ wrath upon him that doeth evil…._

He held the image of his evil-doer in mind.

_Pompous, lying, self-righteous, self-pitying… he knows he deserves what I will do to him—he said I was owed a free hit… today, I take him up on that offer…._

Dolan got to his feet. Taking a few sheets of letterhead from his desk drawer, he folded them around the blade of the glass knife to form a makeshift sheath then he carefully slid it into his right pants pocket. Leaving his jacket on its hanger, he turned off the lights in his office then locked the door behind him.

A five-minute walk took Dolan to the Fourth Avenue Subway station. The F train carried him four stops to the Jay Street Station, where he changed to the A train, which took him under the East River and the Financial District.

_My old stomping grounds… except I would arrive at work in a Town Car… never by public transportation… another thing Fontana took from me—my company-supplied car and driver… I'll bet he wouldn't be caught dead on the subway… and doesn't give a damn that I have to use it…._

He slid his hand into his jacket pocket and caressed the handle of the knife.

_He'll give a damn… just a few more minutes and he'll give more than a damn…._

At Penn Station, Dolan left the train and emerged onto Thirty-Fourth Street. By ten minutes to four, he was outside the Sixteenth Precinct, one of the many people, uniformed and plainclothes, heading into the building. He followed the crowd, stopping only to obey the officer's directive to pause at the metal detector and empty his pockets.

_Keys, phone, and change in the plastic bin… he's not frisking anyone… he barely even looked at me as I walked through the gate… security here is a joke…._

The officer then directed Dolan to the desk sergeant, who gave him a visitor's badge.

"Hey, Jenks!"

At the sergeant's bellow, a young man in a uniform so new it still had packaging wrinkles diverted from his path toward the first floor men's room. He hurried to the desk and stood at attention before the sergeant.

"Sir?" he squeaked.

"You know where SVU is, right?"

Jenks' eyes went blank. Dolan hid a smile at his cluelessness. The desk sergeant let out a heartfelt sigh.

"How about the seventh floor, Jenks?" he asked, the words heavy with sarcasm. "Think you can find that?"

Without waiting for the rookie's reply, the desk sergeant pointed at Dolan.

"See that this gentleman finds the seventh floor and SVU."

With that said, the desk sergeant turned to help another civilian. Dolan peered at the young officer.

"You're my escort?" he asked.

The young man's glance shifted from Dolan to the front desk then to the men's room and then back to Dolan.

"Sir," he said in a rush, "elevator to the seventh floor then turn left. You can't miss it. Excuse me."

Dolan grinned as the rookie dashed off.

_You're right… I can't miss it… and I'm grateful for your assistance—and your full bladder…._

He made his way to the elevator, joining the people waiting for it to arrive. When the cage emptied its load, he made sure he was the last to enter, which put him facing the door, his back to the detectives and officers on their way to work Snippets of their conversations swarmed around him: _Man, it's hot out… seems hotter than last year… Shelley had our dog shaved—thing looks like a naked rat… one more day to new captain—are you ready? Oh, yes… my uncle got me a great deal on 20-inch platinum rims…. _

Dolan paid no attention to the people or their words.

_Detective Otten… find her desk… walk up behind her… draw the blade across her throat—press hard… step back and let whatever happens, happen… think about Fontana attending a funeral instead of his wedding…._

When the elevator door opened at the seventh floor, Dolan exited first then stepped aside and turned his back toward the other occupants, giving them time to walk away before he followed them down the hallway. Three of them turned left toward a double door marked "Robbery" while two women went straight through the open door to the Special Victims Unit. Dolan drew his cell phone and pretended to fiddle with it while he observed that squadroom.

_Plenty of people milling about… looks like this room and Robbery adjoin… check the desks for name plates… I see Benson, Sofarelli, and there's Otten… third desk from this door—second from the door leading to Robbery… the two women in the elevator are joining the group by the coffee pot… looks like five women in the room—no, six… there's one in the private office on the right—she's handing out mail—not a detective so disregard her… the rest have badges and guns… one of them, the tall brunette, she's walking away… stopping at Otten's desk… sitting down… beautiful woman—almost as lovely as my Amy once was… exactly the sort that would catch Fontana's lecherous eye… she's picking up a file folder… opening it… reading it… her back to the other door… if I come in that way, I'll be behind her… matches my plan exactly…._

Dolan put his phone back in his pocket then he followed the path taken by the three men into Robbery. The personnel there were gathered at the far end of the room. A few of them glanced his way when he entered. Dolan mouthed "SVU" at them then shrugged to show he was lost. When one of them pointed at the adjoining door, Dolan nodded then walked through it.

_There's a man standing by the desk just past Otten—young guy talking on his cell phone… but no one is between Fontana's fiancée and me… I could not ask for a better shot…._

He drew the knife from his pocket and held it by the handle, its blade tight against the side of his leg.

_Walk forward… raise the knife… grab her hair… slit her throat… photos on her desk… one of them is Fontana dressed like a manual laborer… man never did an honest day's work in his life… no one is looking my way… everyone busy with their coffee and chit-chat… _

He stopped a foot behind Otten's chair and shifted the knife in his grip to horizontal.

_Lovely long neck… like my Amy's… like my dear, dead Amy's… time to join her, bitch…._

Dolan reached out for the woman's head. He felt soft hair between his fingers as he drew her head back, the glint of the blade reflecting the overhead fluorescents, the resistance when she tried to pull away, the _thud_ of an elbow connecting with the back of the desk chair, a grunt muffled by the awkward extension of her neck—Dolan ignored all of it, wanting only the bite of razor glass into flesh. His vision tunneled around the blade and the throat as the two became one.

"Knife!"

A male hand entered his field of vision, inserting itself between the knife and the throat. It slammed against his wrist, forcing his arm out and away. Dolan jerked the knife back and the blade connected with something hard just as another hand plowed palm-first into his face. The blow sent him back, hot taste of blood in his mouth, as his feet were swept from under him. Dolan tumbled back, his arms outstretched, his hand releasing the knife in the hope of a hand-hold to break his fall. A brilliant white flash filled his skull, then nothing.


	49. The More Things Change

Author's Notes:

I found a discrepancy in the seating arrangements in chapter one of this story ("Three Dinners at Rocco's") and corrected it in the online postings.

_Decerebrate posturing:_ when the body is rigid with the neck and head arched, the arms and legs straight and held away from the body with the toes pointed downward. Can result from a brain tumor, head trauma, or stroke—always an indication of very severe brain injury.

_Butterflies: _adhesive bandages designed to hold the edges of a wound together

_Shock, pain, anger:_ the first three stages of grief (by one measure) Many people process traumas other than grief using the same steps

_Steri-Strips™:_ a brand name for butterfly bandages

_Lennie's not around: _Lennie Briscoe, Manhattan homicide detective until his retirement in 2004. Although canon is vague on the date and details, Briscoe died later in 2004. He worked with John Munch on three cases (shown as two-part episodes with _Homicide: Life on the Streets_) and slept with one of Munch's ex-wives. Despite this (perhaps because of it,) the two men were good friends.

_Cassady and Cortale:_ Nina Cassady, replacement for Joe Fontana (and canonically feckless as a detective.) Izzie Cortale is Van Buren's replacement (in this story universe)

Since the point of departure for this AU is after episode 7.6 (RAW), there was no knife attack by Gitano on Benson in this timeline. Ardent E/O 'shippers probably should skip the first six paragraphs and the second section.

Events in this story move faster than they would in Real Life. Procedures in this story are designed to reflect the needs of the story, not the realities of the NYPD or the DA's office. There is some bad language in this chapter.

Sixteenth Precinct  
Hallway outside Special Victims Unit  
18 August, 3:56 p.m. (Wednesday)

As she rode the elevator to the seventh floor, Olivia Benson felt like grinning.

_We survived all the crap thrown at us… everyone is healthy or healing… tomorrow, Captain Van Buren takes command and I can dump all this shift garbage on Couch… and Dave loves me…._

The revelation had come over lunch after Olivia had gathered her courage to ask if he would like to meet her fellow detectives.

_He got on well with Elliot and Kathy… but dinner with them isn't the same as having Munch demanding his life story… or having Donna blurt out what she thinks… or even Fin scowling as he makes up his mind… it's more like bringing Dave home to the parents—times three…._

She expected Dave to say something along the lines of "Sure, whenever—let me know when."

_What I got was his hand reaching out for mine and him saying, "I'd be honored, love. When do you want to do this?" I was stunned—I'm still stunned… and it wasn't just a one-off—Dave then asked if he could introduce 'the woman he loves' to his friends… I'm turning to mush in the middle of the restaurant and he's smiling at me… and, crap—I need to ask Judith about those interview notes before the shift meeting…._

The elevator door opened and Olivia matched strides with the older detective.

_She said they were in a folder on her desk… and she didn't mind if I took a couple minutes there to look them over… I need to prep for the shift meeting and sticking my nose in a folder should give me some cover…._

Olivia angled left when she entered the squadroom. Chester Lake was standing between his desk and Couch's, his cell phone at his ear. He nodded a greeting as Olivia passed him.

_There's the folder—stuck under her cactus garden… we all laughed when Fontana gave it to her, but they're still alive… at least, they look alive—it's hard to tell with cacti…._

Olivia took a seat in Judith's chair then she opened the file and pretended to be deeply engrossed in its contents.

_Let's see… I need to update everyone on Don's condition and release date… Howie has four follow-up interviews he wants done this evening… Couch is off celebrating with his family so Fin is solo… I'll give him two of them and stick Munch and Donna with the re—_

Someone grabbed her hair and pulled her head up and back.

_Stop clowning around—I'm busy…._

Olivia stiffened against the pull then struck back with her right elbow, figuring the prankster deserved a sharp jab. It hit the chair back and jarred her funny bone. Her "Damn it!" was distorted by the stretch of her throat then cut off by the sight of a hand and blade crossing her vision.

_This isn't a joke…._

Before the thought completed, before she could raise her own hand to ward off the blade, just as it sliced into her throat—

"Knife!"

Lake's shout came to her as he rounded the desk. He hooked one hand under the arm at her throat. The grip on her hair let go and she fell forward onto the desk.

_Shit… shit… shit…._

"Liv!"

She ignored her partner's shout as she raised her left hand to her neck.

_Sticky… hot… shit… close my eyes—don't look…._

Someone pulled her hand from her neck. She felt the pressure of a soft pad where her fingers had been then the support of hands from behind helping her to sit upright.

"It's okay, Liv," she heard Elliot say. "It's okay."

_I can breathe… but knife… throat… oh, shit… oh, shit…._

Panic quickened her breath and tightened her chest. When Elliot wrapped his free arm around her shoulder, Olivia leaned into the comfort and began to shake.

_What the hell was that?_

"Sure, I can lend a hand Friday," Chester Lake was saying in to his cell phone when Benson walked passed him. "Any chance we can get at the sink from behind?"

He nodded at Olivia in greeting then took a couple steps away from his desk when she sat down in Judith's chair.

_Don't need to be overheard… something about plumbing turns everyone into a comedian…._

Chester put his attention back to his call as his brother Michael described the logistics of his home's kitchen sink access.

"Sounds like we'll need to cut through some wallboard," Lake replied just as a man in his late fifties, dress shirt and tie but no jacket, his visitor's badge clipped to his shirt pocket, entered the squadroom from Robbery.

_Guy looks lost…._

In his ear, Chester's brother gave thanks the kitchen wall wasn't plaster.

_Yep… nothing adds hours to a project like plaster—what is that guy doing?_

The visitor had stopped behind Benson, his right hand in his pants pocket, his left hand reaching for Olivia's hair. He then drew what looked like a wad of paper from his pocket. A snap of his wrist shed the paper to reveal a clear glass knife, one like Chester's foster mother had used to serve her meringue pies. Before Lake could react, the man put the knife to the side of Benson's neck.

"Knife!"

Chester dropped his phone and rushed the three feet to Olivia's side. He reached for the man's knife arm with his right, getting his hand between Olivia's face and the arm to trap it against his chest. He then aimed a palm strike at the man's face.

The blow knocked the attacker backward, off-balance. The fall yanked the man's arm free of Lake's hold, dragging the blade along his shoulder. Lake flinched from the pain as the attacker flailed for support.

Lake grabbed for him, but the man toppled against Howie's desk, his head striking the corner with a sickening _thud._

"Knife!"

Elliot, at his desk by Cragen's office, jumped from his chair at the shout.

_Where? Who?_

He spotted Chester struggling with a man at Judith's desk. Below them, Olivia was slumped forward.

"Liv!"

She raised a hand to the side of her throat. Elliot saw bright red blood flowing between her fingers.

_Oh, God—no!_

He ran up the center aisle, swerving to miss Munch as John jumped to his feet. Olivia had closed her eyes and was panting rapidly when he reached her. Elliot snatched his handkerchief from his back pocket then moved her hand away from the wound.

_Apply pressure… do not compress carotid artery on other side of neck… there's blood on the computer, the folder she was reading, her blouse… oh, God…._

John appeared next to Elliot and, without a word, helped to bring Olivia upright in the desk chair then he handed Elliot his own handkerchief.

"You got this?" he asked.

Elliot nodded and John turned to kneel by the injured man. Elliot placed his free hand on Olivia's right shoulder to steady her. She began to tremble as shock took hold of her.

"It's okay, Liv," Elliot assured her. "It's okay."

"Oh, shit," she said, her voice hissing the word. "Oh, shit."

"It's okay," he repeated. "You're gonna be okay."

He glanced around to see if anyone had called it in and saw Brewster with a desk phone to his ear.

"10-13," he was saying. "Officer down with neck wounds, officer with chest wounds, civilian down with head trauma—"

"We've got decerebrate posturing," Elliot heard John call from the floor behind him, "with muscle and jaw spasms. Possible brainstem injury. Tell them to rush it."

From further away came Chloe's voice.

"Oh, Gaw—"

Elliot twisted to see Donna spin the office admin around and bend her over a wastebasket. The sound of retching roiled his stomach.

_Don't hurl… take care of Liv… thank God she's okay… what the hell went down here?_

"Knife!"

Judith was furthest away, between the fridge and the stairs, waiting her turn at the coffee pot. At Lake's shout, she had to force her way through the crowd of detectives. By the way she had line-of-sight, Benson was slumped on the desk and Chester was standing over a man lying on the floor.

_Chester's bleeding…._

She snatched a roll of paper towels from the top of the fridge, opening it as she ran. Elliot and Munch were with Olivia by the time she reached Lake.

_Upper chest… two inches long… looks shallow…._

Judith ripped a wad of paper from the roll of towels.

"Chester, here," she called to draw his attention from the man on the floor.

_Sue and Fin are working on him… convulsions, posturing… he's not going to make it…._

When Chester looked up, Judith pressed the paper wad against his right collar bone.

"It's not that bad," he told her.

"You still need to sit down."

Judith kept pressure on the cut while Chester sank into his chair across the desk from where Elliot was assisting Olivia. Lake's gaze stayed fixed on the man convulsing on the floor even after the double desk blocked any view of him.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice low to keep from disturbing the others.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Chester replied, "but that guy came in and attacked Olivia. Didn't say a word—just tried to cut her throat."

"Where's the knife?"

Chester pointed to a scattering of broken glass on the floor by the desk.

"Clear glass—almost didn't see it. Almost didn't stop him."

"But you did. Any idea who he is?"

"Never saw him before."

Rapid footsteps approaching from the hall caught her attention. Judith turned to see six ESU personnel, four of them carrying paramedic gear, enter the squadroom. One stopped by her side while the other five split up: three for the man on the floor, two for Benson.

Judith stepped back to let the ESU officer examine Chester's wound.

_It's not that bad… butterflies and a dressing should do it…._

She craned her neck to see how Benson was doing_._

_Awake and aware… that is so good… only thing good here… what the hell happened?_

Emergency Room—Bay #6  
Mercy General Hospital  
6:17 p.m.

Although detectives showed up at the ER to take statements from Benson and Stabler, the information the two detectives truly wanted came later in the person of Sergeant Vickie Quinn from Internal Affairs. She looked in on Benson just as the resident treating her was tying the last of ten stitches to close her wound. The doctor waved the intruder away so Elliot stepped outside the curtain to see what IAB wanted from them.

_Quinn wanted to tell Liv the name of her attacker… and that she wasn't his intended target… after she told me, she then asked where Judith was… I hooked my thumb down the hall to where Chester was getting fixed up… didn't even say anything to her—that's how blown away I was by her news…._

By the time Quinn was finished, Olivia's wound had been dressed and the resident had moved on to his next case. Elliot ducked back into the bay and found his partner seated on the bed, one hand gingerly touching the bandage on her neck. As soon as she saw him, Olivia quickly lowered her hand then gave him a tight smile.

"Did Sgt. Rat bring us any info," she asked, "or is she here only to annoy us?"

Elliot slid both hands into his pockets.

"Info. According to her, your attacker's name is Robert Dolan and he has a long-standing beef with Fontana for a botched investigation or something. The theory is he decided to take out Judith and mistook you for her."

Olivia's eyes went wide then she began to shake.

"Hey," he said. "There's no need—"

She pinned him with a glare then drew in a deep breath.

"You're telling me," she said, her voice rasping the words, "I almost died because I was sitting in the wrong chair? Because some nutcase thought I was a short, blonde woman old enough to be my mother? Is that what you're telling me?"

Elliot rocked back on his heels…

_Shock, pain, anger—yeah, we're definitely at anger…._

… and he raised his hands to ward off his partner's fury.

"Yeah," he replied, "that's what I'm saying, but look—nothing came of it. Everything's okay now."

Olivia shook her head violently then said, "You don't understand. I almost died today. You know what else happened today?"

Elliot started to say "No," but his partner spoke over his reply.

"Dave said he loved me today. I finally hear those words from someone worth hearing them from and, just a few hours later—"

Her hand rose to touch the bandage on her neck.

"Everything finally starts falling into place for me and I almost get my throat slit. Elliot…."

Olivia dropped her hand to her lap them she glanced around the ER bay as though picking words from their hiding places before she said them.

"Elliot, maybe I've stretched my luck as far as it'll go. Maybe it's time to leave before it breaks and takes me with it."

Her gaze landed on him then she drew in another deep breath, but said nothing else. Elliot met her gaze as he let the message sink in.

_Talk about crap timing… but you can't mean that… yeah, it was close, but… hell, I don't know…._

"Liv," he said, only because the silence needed some sound in it.

Her held breath came out in an exasperated sigh.

"Yeah, I know—you never thought I'd say it. Well, I'm saying it. If Chester hadn't got to me in time, you'd be telling Dave I was gone. On the day he said he loved me, you'd be telling him I was gone."

Elliot glanced around for a box of tissue, but the tears he expected did not come. Instead, Olivia slid from the bed to her feet.

"Let's get out of here, El. I've had enough of this place."

She strode past him and into the hall, giving Elliot no time to ask where she planned to go. He hurried after her, catching up when she stopped at the last bay on the hall. Inside, Elliot saw a shirtless Chester Lake sitting on the examination bed, a line of Steri-Strips glued along his collarbone. He was staring glumly at Judith, who stood across the room with her cell phone at her ear.

_Man, does she look pissed… sounds pissed, too… must be at Joe, because it's all in Italian…._

Olivia paid no attention to Lake or to Elliot's arrival as she entered the bay and halted in front of the older woman. Judith's response was to hit the 'End' button on her phone.

_They stared at each other for a moment… Liv scowling at Judith… Judith pale with her teeth clenched tight… Chester took the opportunity to jump off the bed and join me in the hall… probably trying to get out of the line of fire… _

Olivia spoke first. To Elliot's surprise, it was two syllables, calmly said.

"Dolan—"

Judith reply was equally calm.

"Joe."

"Dave," said Olivia.

Judith's eyes widened.

"Dave?"

"Yeah, today. And then—"

"Dolan."

"Damned near—"

"Can't believe—"

"Damn right!"

Both women let out exasperated sighs. Chester caught Elliot s gaze then shrugged as if to ask what the hell was going on.

_I've seen Kathy and our daughters do this… to them, it's a complete conversation… no idea how they do it…._

Judith then pointed a finger in the direction of the ER's main entrance.

"Joe's sending his car for me—not that it fixes anything. Do you want a ride home?"

"Why not?" Olivia replied. "I'm benched until tomorrow."

"Great. Let's go."

Both women turned then walked past their partners without a word to either of them. Chester took a step to follow, but Elliot grabbed his arm.

"Let's let them go by themselves," he told Lake. "Liv can break out the ice cream or some wine, and the two of them will talk everything out. My daughter Maureen calls it 'calorie therapy.'"

The joke went right past Lake. Elliot checked his expression and stance.

_Shoulders hunched in… frowning and quiet… probably hearing Dolan's head hitting Howie's desk over and over… God, I know what that's like… maybe I should offer to come see him after the shift with a six-pack… or just try and say something now…._

Elliot cleared his throat as he chose his words carefully.

"You know, Dolan brought this on himself. Whether he lives or dies…"

_or ends up a vegetable—_

"…it's all on him, not you."

Lake's frown deepened.

"I know, but knowing it isn't the same as feeling it."

"Yeah," Elliot replied, "I know what you mean. Hell, I think everyone in the unit right now knows it."

Lake nodded again then he pointed at Elliot.

"Think you could lend me your jacket? I'd rather not attract attention right now—you know, reporters and such."

Elliot took off his jacket and handed it to Lake.

"Want I should give you my shirt, too?"

"Nah," Chester replied as he carefully slid his right arm into a sleeve, "I got one in my locker. I should be good."

He settled the jacket on his shoulders with a shrug then he met Elliot's gaze with a directness that deepened the message of what he said next.

"Thanks, Elliot."

"No problem. Let's get the hell out of here."

_And back to SVU… where the hits just keep on coming…._

Office of Captain A. Van Buren  
Manhattan Special Victims Unit  
19 August (Thursday) 3:58 p.m.

Unpacking her belongings that morning had taken Anita less than fifteen minutes. Her husband had supplied a fancy grow light for Audrey, the green and yellow pothos now sitting on the credenza where Anita's predecessor had kept his computer.

_I moved that to my desk—no more Compstat reports on paper for me… I'm in the twenty-first century now…._

The first shift had gone smoothly. Sergeant Reina Venter turned out to be a seasoned veteran comfortable with the ins and outs of unit management. She quickly had Brewster's people attuned to the new methods for processing requests, procurements, and other bureaucratic matters.

_Of course, it helps that Brewster was more than ready to dump the work on her… I haven't met a detective yet who liked paperwork… Venter also said she'd mentor Sgt. Sofarelli until he's got his feet under him… I like it when my problems solve themselves…._

Through the large windows, Van Buren observed the sixteen detectives as they interacted, the easy camaraderie shared among them as the day shift prepared to leave and the evening shift made ready for their eight hours.

_Don Cragen did an excellent job here, all things considered… he handed me a team of solid, experienced people… still can't believe my luck—not that this will be easy… Special Victims is no picnic… especially with all everyone had been through…._

She picked out the second shift detectives, matching their persons to their file photos and fixing them in her memory.

_I was surprised to see Benson and Lake here today… no one would have blamed them for taking a day off… guess everyone wants to be here for the new captain's first day… I see Benson is wearing a turtleneck… there's Otten by the coffeepot… still can't believe this she's the one Fontana fell for… it's no wonder Dolan mistook Benson for her last night… so hard to believe he snapped after all these years… news report this morning said he'd died during surgery… that means I should keep a close eye on Lake… make sure he handles it okay… and Benson, too—she seems the sort who won't admit weakness… not always a good thing… and I need to watch out for Tutuola and Stabler—at least they're both getting counseling… glad they have the sense to not go it alone…. Loudon and Sofarelli—new here, but not rookies—can't say how glad I am to leave Cassady behind with my replacement … I don't even want to know if the Investigator's course taught her anything—she is Cortale's problem now… and there's Munch—as happy as I am to have seen the last of Cassady, I'm not sure I'm getting the best of the deal with Munch… at least Lennie's not around to wind him up… those two were quite the pair... all in all, between the two shifts, I've got some damn fine people… I think about the cases they handle and all the crap that's been thrown at them, and every one of them is still standing—sure, there's some things I need to watch… and here's Sofarelli, coming to get me for the shift meeting…._

Anita picked up her note listing her revised partner assignments then she rose to her feet.

_Time to take command… my unit, my people… I'm so blessed to have it and them…._


	50. The More They Stay The Same

Author's notes:

This chapter is a series of vignettes from the next few years in this Alternative Universe. It completes my Full Complement series. Note that some canonical items occur in different years in my AU.

_District 3:_ the Real Life NYC Council district that contains the fictitious 16th Precinct. For my series, John Baker is the incumbent council member.

In 2007, the one-day per year residency requirement for NYC council members was accurate.

_The London:_ a Real Life hotel on W 54th Street (barely inside Baker's district g)

_LaGuardia:_ Fiorello LaGuardia, Mayor of New York from 1934 to 1945.

_Blew below a .05_: in the state of New York, a blood alcohol content (BAC) over .08 is considered as legally intoxicated. A charge of "driving with ability impaired" may apply if the BAC is over .05

_The Boroughs:_ a magazine used in the TV show _Person of Interest_. I'm borrowing it here.

_NDA_: non-disclosure agreement

_The Bruner case:_ Law & Order Season 14 episode _Bodies. _ In this episode, cab driver Mark Bruner admitted murdered fifteen young women, but would not give police the locations of the bodies. The info Loudoun mentions to Green is canon from the episode.

_CI_: confidential informant

_10-84: _NYPD 10-code (radio code) used to inform Dispatch when a female being transported by a male officer has entered or exited the transporting vehicle

_Tantísimo__enfadado: _so very angry (if this is wrong, let me know; my Spanish is very rusty)

_19-50 record_: the Knicks' win-loss record on this date actually was 19 wins, 50 losses

As noted elsewhere, the procedures and policies in this chapter do not reflect actual NYPD or Office of the District Attorney policies and procedures. Although I strive for verisimilitude, everything has been tailored to suit this story. Events also move faster than they would in Real Life. Some characters say "Hell" and "Damn" in this chapter.

Office of District Attorney Arthur Branch  
One Hogan Place  
4 December, 2007

_12/4—3:30 p.m. J. Fontana, unstated business_

Arthur Branch's three-thirty arrived promptly and in an Italian-made suit. Branch noted that the retired detective had made great strides in his recovery since the previous August. There was only the barest hitch in his stride when he entered the office.

_Not hiding those missing fingers of his… and that ebony cane he's carrying seems more like an affectation than an aid…._

While Fontana had made himself comfortable on the leather sofa, Arthur arranged himself in a casual lean against his desk.

_A superior position that looks friendly… perfect for a conversation with a man who might be asking me to do something for him… and who is in a position to help my reelection, should he be inclined to write me a large check…._

The two men chatted for a while about the mild winter weather and the upcoming holidays then Fontana turned serious.

"It's not common knowledge yet," he told Branch, "but I'm getting set to run against John Baker for his seat on the City Council. I'd like your endorsement."

_Short, direct, to the point… I wish more lawyers could manage that… and it's not at all what I expected…._

When Branch asked how a retired NYPD detective planned to unseat an incumbent funded by the Lamerly family fortune, Fontana laid out his strategy.

_He's already lined up the support of the police fraternal orders… and the fire associations, too… he's sounded out the district's movers and shakers to get their opinions on Baker and what needs improving… he met with the district's church leaders: the monsignor at St. Michael's, the vicar at the Episcopal church, the bishop at the Holiness Tabernacle, and his wife has talked with to the pastor at the German Lutheran church because, as Fontana put it, his 'Deutsche is rusty'… he's also marshaled members of those churches and organizations to gather petition signatures in the District... he figures to have the required 900 names plus a comfortable cushion by Easter.…_

"Of course," Fontana then said, "a lot of this depends on me nailing down a couple more important endorsements. No need in raising anyone's hopes if I can't assure them I mean business."

Arthur ignored the blatant hint.

_I'm going to make him work for it… not that he won't be an improvement over Baker—hell, a sack of manure would be better than Baker… smarter, too…._

"On what issues are you planning to campaign?" he asked.

"Pot holes," Fontana replied. "More formally, the city's infrastructure. With the current council focusing on entitlements and handouts, I figure making sure the city doesn't crumble around us is a niche waiting for someone to fill it."

"What else?"

"Support for the police commissioner's modernization strategies. Smarter cops with better training means fewer civilian complaints."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. Fontana gazed at him calmly as though he found no irony in his statement.

"And," he continued, "I plan to hammer it home that Baker doesn't care about his district. Case in point, his office is on the second floor of a walk-up, probably to keep the elderly and handicapped from bothering him with their problems. He doesn't shop in the area, never talks to the people who work or live there except at his infrequent public forums, and his office staff hates working for him."

"And you'll do that—how?"

Fontana raised his hand to tick off his talking points on his fingers.

"There's a street-level space on Tenth Avenue that will serve as both campaign headquarters and my office once I'm elected. From now until the election, I'll buy my groceries and household supplies from local shops and do my drinking at McMullen's—that's the cop bar near the One-Six. I'll walk around and talk to people—ask what's on their minds. If I learned nothing from my time on the job, I learned it takes shoe leather—canvassing and asking questions—to find evidence. The same technique finds problems, too—problems Baker is ignoring and problems I can solve. By the time I'm finished, people who don't have a clue who John Baker is will know who I am and that I care, and they will vote for me. Also…."

Fontana paused to heighten the suspense.

"I've convinced Baker's aide, Tullia Horne, to run my campaign. Without her, Baker will be up the creek without both a paddle and a boat. Given her expertise and knowledge, my connections and willingness to pound the pavement, and Baker's personal failings, the poor guy doesn't stand a chance."

He settled back against the sofa and smiled as though confident of the DA's support.

_Fontana sounds like a born politician… however…._

"If I recall correctly," Arthur noted, "you don't live in Baker's district."

"Neither does Baker," Fontana countered. "In fact, he and his wife have a very nice townhouse in District Four—Upper East Side. The only residency requirement is that council members live in their districts on Election Day. Baker satisfies that by booking a suite at the London."

"Not too shabby," Arthur noted.

Fontana drew himself upright on the sofa.

"I, on the other hand, plan to bunk at the Sixteenth Precinct. Not only will my choice of residency differentiate me from my opponent, but my wife, Detective First Grade Judith Otten Fontana, serves and protects the good people of the district with the Special Victims Unit at the One-Six. Sleeping there will draw attention to my many ties to the community I want to serve."

A sly smile curved Fontana's lips as he dropped out of campaign mode.

"Plus, I figure a photo of the beds in the crib should get me the sympathy vote. Some of those mattresses were bought by LaGuardia himself."

Arthur chuckled, both at the joke and at the mental image of Fontana deigning to allow city-issued linens anywhere near his person.

"Well," the DA told him, "I can see you have thoroughly planned your strategy. Now, what do I get for saying you're a fine fellow who deserves Baker's council seat?"

He noted that Fontana needed no time to consider his reply.

"I support you in turn," he told Branch, "at committee and Council meetings, and with my constituents. I work to keep the fraternal orders in your column, and I also fundraise for you, and donate to your campaign to the maximum allowed by law."

"Anything else?"

Fontana raised his hand as though it held a trinket to sway the D.A.

"I let you beat me at golf. Of course, right now, a newborn kitten could do that so it's not much of an enticement, but…."

Arthur waved away the offer.

"If I can't win fair and square," he said, "I don't play the game. However, if the price of a round or two with you is my endorsement, then you have it."

He started to stick out his right hand to seal the deal but, when Fontana had to struggle to rise from the sofa, he dropped it back to his side.

_I guess he needs that cane after all…._

The set of the man's jaw warned Branch not to offer assistance. Instead, he patiently waited until Fontana was on his feet to offer his hand again. Fontana's strong grip came with a sincere "Thank you, sir. This means a lot to me."

Arthur could not resist a jab.

"And to the fine citizens of this city?"

Fontana leaned on his cane then shrugged his free shoulder.

"Oh, I'm sure it also means a lot to them, but I'm the one in your debt and, trust me, I will remember."

Arthur twisted to get his daybook from his desk.

"And I'll be sure to remind you as needed, Detective. Now, how about setting up one of those golf dates? Think you'll be in shape by March?"

Murphy Business Brokers  
649 Fourth Avenue, Manhattan  
09 November 2008

It was three o'clock, the time agreed upon for the closing of the sale of McMullen's Tavern. The agent handling the sale was present in the conference room, as were two of the three buyers, John Munch and Connie Walker.

_We're waiting on Joe… when he didn't answer his cell phone, I called his office… Tullia said he had just left the DA's office to come here… seems Branch decided not to charge Brad Ellers in the death of Enrique Leon, one of Joe's constituents—yes, Ellers blew below a .05 and Leon's autopsy showed him to be well over the legal limit, but Leon was in a crosswalk and Ellers may have been speeding… many people, including Leon's family and friends, have been hounding Joe to pressure Branch into charging Ellers with aggravated vehicular homicide—even though that doesn't apply here… but Joe's standing with the DA on this one… and he'll catch hell from his district's Hispanics for it…._

John pocketed his phone then relayed the news to his wife and the broker. The agent excused herself to make some calls, promising to return when Councilman Fontana arrived. As soon as the door closed behind her. John began to fidget, his fingers drumming the table top as though it was drum solo time.

_I can't believe I'm buying another bar… you'd think the Waterfront would have cured me of this affliction… but, when Jim let me know he wanted to retire then asked if I was interested, I had to look into it… _

Connie, seated in the chair next to John, reached out to cover his hand and still its fidgeting.

"Don't worry," she told him. "Everything's fine."

Although John knew it wasn't rational, her assurance sent him to his feet.

"Fine?" he repeated. "Don't you know what we're doing here?"

She smiled up at him.

"We're buying a very successful tavern in a great location with a growing customer base at a very reasonable price."

He glared down at her through his lenses.

"And we're retiring, Connie. We're giving up our paychecks for this."

Connie's smile widened.

"Pensions, John. Remember our pensions."

Munch leaned over to pick up the binder that held the closing statement for the deal.

"Yes, pensions—we have pensions. We have yours and we have my pittance from Charm City, but we also have massive amounts of debt—or will the second we sign these forms."

Connie's smile held firm.

"That's why you asked Joe to partner with us, John. You wanted his business savvy and his backing in case we hit a rough patch, which we won't because McMullen's has made a profit thirty-six of the past thirty-six months."

John dropped the binder onto the table.

"Next month," he warned, his finger aimed at his wife, "next month will snap that streak. Customers will desert us in droves. Water mains will break. Ceilings will collapse. Cholera will infest the pickled onions. The health inspector will find tetanus on the cue balls. The city will levy a 100% tax on bar food. and Congress will reenact Prohibition."

_And you're giggling… you've ducked your head, but I can tell… you're giggling…._

The sight of his wife's salt-and cinnamon hair bobbing in time to her laughter calmed John's nerves. He sank into the chair by her and reached for her hand.

"I'm over-doing it, aren't I?" he asked.

Connie raised her head and nodded at him.

"'Way overblown, my love. Now, take a deep breath."

John compiled, sucking in a chestful of air though his nostrils.

"Now, let it out."

John gave his wife a long wolf whistle, holding the note until she blushed, then he grinned at her.

_Connie's right… this time, it will work… what with my experience, and her accounting and business knowledge, and Joe's contacts and backing… this time, it's going to work…._

National Bank House  
13 Port Richmond Avenue, Staten Island  
23 March, 2008

The back seat of the Ford Taurus parked at the curb held a woman and her five-year-old son, both battered and bruised thanks to a live-in boyfriend's bad day at work. A paper bag on the seat between them contained the few items of clothing the woman had managed to grab before fleeing. Next to her, the boy hugged a stuffed triceratops so tightly that it seemed part of his jacket. Neither had said a word during the forty-minute drive from the 115th Precinct to their destination.

In the front seat, Elliot Stabler was talking to Dispatch.

"10-84 at 11:18pm."

_Female out of vehicle—no indication of where in case her scumwad of a boyfriend has friends with police scanners… I wish I knew who decided DV victims go to shelters as far from their homes as possible… it's a great idea—if not exactly convenient for those driving them…._

Elliot stifled a yawn as he helped the boy from the car then the two of them walked around the car to offer a hand to the boy's mother. She clasped the paper bag tight to her chest as she exited the vehicle.

_Both vics still shell-shocked… getting knocked around isn't new to either of them, but something happened this time that made Ms. Salas grab that bag and her son and head for the precinct house… all she would tell Jim and me was '__Enfadado__, __tantísimo__enfadado__ —he say he kill us so we run…' She signed the complaint and a couple officers went to pick up Collado… they found him tearing up the place… he's on his way to Rikers now… as for his victims…._

Both mother and son eyed the massive columns and iron grilles that protected the building before them as though afraid of the massive building.

_It once was the Staten Island National Bank and Trust Company… and it certainly doesn't look like a women's shelter..._

Their unease calmed when the front door opened to show a bright-lit lobby and a woman who greeted them with a confident smile.

"Ms Salas, Tomas," Olivia Benson called to them. "Please come in."

Ms. Salas grabbed her son's hand. Once she had him secured, she dashed across the threshold with him in tow. Benson stepped aside to let them inside then she signaled to Stabler to wait on the sidewalk. When Elliot nodded in reply, Benson pulled the door shut, leaving him alone.

Elliot settled against the fender of the Taurus.

_Women and children only allowed inside… it's too keep the residents from reacting badly to seeing a strange man in the halls… that how traumatized some of them are… Olivia said the board is working to start a shelter for men who have children… most men won't admit to being abused by a wife or girlfriend—hell, they barely want to admit to being broke and homeless, but Liv thinks they'll be able to pull it off… Lord knows there's men and kids who could use the help…._

He had waited for almost twenty minutes, the time spent listening to the car radio crackle and hiss the 10-codes and updates on the police band, when the shelter's door opened again to let Benson exit.

"Hey, Elliot," she greeted him. "Sorry to make you wait."

"They're making the new hire work the night shift?" Elliot asked.

"No," she replied, "it's my first regular monthly volunteer shift. I'm using it to see how good the security here really is."

"Find anything wrong?"

"Yes. Look at the door."

Olivia gestured to the main entrance behind her. Elliot glanced at the solid door.

"We want a low profile," she told them, "so all our security cameras are installed inside, but the way they're set up leaves a blind spot."

She pointed to the center of the threshold.

"If someone comes in low and stays close to the building, he could squat right there below the peephole and we'd never see him. Once the door's open, he could force his way in."

Elliot checked the surrounding area for an alternative camera location.

"You're thinking a camera across the street?" he asked.

"Yes, at the vacuum repair shop. I'm planning to call the owner in the morning, see if we can put a camera in his front window—"

"—with a Wi-Fi feed to your monitors," Elliot finished her sentence. "Good thinking, Liv. That's why they pay you the big bucks."

Olivia ducked her head to hide a smile at the praise.

"Once I get through vetting everything," she continued, "all six shelters will have the best security possible—no chance of anyone getting in to harm or threaten a resident."

She walked over to his side then leaned against the car. Elliot noted the pancake holster at her belt.

"I'll bet your sidearm helps your clients feel more secure," he said.

Olivia snorted at his comment.

"It helps, but my carry permit isn't the reason I was hired."

"I'm sure Dave's recommendation—and Anita's, and Don's, and Joe's—are what did it," he replied, "along with your sterling reputation and decades of experience."

Olivia took in his lopsided grin and faked a frown in reply.

"Watch it, Stabler,'" she warned him. "You make me sound old."

"But you got your twenty in," he noted. "That does make two decades."

He grinned wider to show he was ribbing her, and Olivia finally broke out a warm smile of her own.

"So," he said, "retirement agrees with you."

Olivia waved her hand at the shelter.

"This agrees with me. I'm doing so much good here—not just making sure everyone is safe, but I'm also teaching self-defense classes for both the women and the kids, and I'm doing some one-on-one mentoring."

She turned to face Elliot.

"When our clients leave here, they start fresh without fear. They know the signs of a controlling, abusive partner, and they know how to avoid falling prey to one again. Elliot, I'm thrilled to be helping them get to that point."

"Best decision you ever made?"

Olivia's upper lip crinkled as she considered her answer.

"Fourth best. First was marrying Dave, second was adopting Alexa—"

An evil smile parted her lips.

"Third was not killing you while we were partners."

Elliot chuckled at her jibe. Olivia joined with his laughter then she asked how things were with him.

"The job's treating me okay," he replied. "Robberies, felony assaults, grand larceny—all keeping me busy. For a while, I missed the rush a child abduction or serial rape case gave me. Now, when I look back on those cases, I remember how burnt out I always felt, how I had nothing left for Kathy and our kids. I don't miss that—not at all."

Olivia sighed in agreement.

"Not me, either. I've learned I really like having a life."

Elliot looked at his former partner.

_She's happy… Dave and this place did that… good for her… good for both of us…._

"Yeah," he said "I know what you mean."

Manhattan South Homicide Squad  
7 February, 2010

His partner was out with the 'flu and the crappy weather—sleet mixed with rain that made the late afternoon almost dark as night—must have kept the murderers from their intended victims, because the phones weren't ringing. Ed Green took advantage of the quiet to catch up on paperwork.

_Sure don't like this new keyboard… I tried to get Tech Services to let me keep my old one, but no luck on that… he said it was this or pen and paper… hell, I remember those days and I ain't going back…._

Ed was working through the DD-5 on his latest complaint: a domestic murder where the wife knifed her common-law husband for getting himself a beer while not bringing her a soda, when his desk phone rang. The call was from Donna Loudoun.

_I met her at McMullan's—I stop by to see Joe and Judith there—sometimes the other SV detectives join us… haven't seen Donna since she transferred to Cold Cases last year… I must be slipping—letting a fine woman vanish like that…._

After greetings and pleasantries, Loudoun asked if Ed remember Mark Bruner.

"Remember him? Hell, yes."

_Eyes like a dead fish—the poster child for stone-cold killers…._

"_Well,"_ Donna told him, _"we found his body stash today. Since some of the credit for that is yours, I thought I'd call and say 'Thanks.'"_

Ed jerked at the news.

"You found Bruner's bodies? All of them? Where?"

"_Yes. All fifteen of them. They were at a junkyard on Coster Street in the Bronx. According to the owner, Bruner paid an annual fee to store a car he was planning to restore. Owner gave him a key to the gate so he could work on it whenever he wanted."_

"Bruner didn't seem like a car guy," Ed noted.

"_Given that the car was a '78 Ford Pinto wagon,"_ Loudoun replied, _"I'd say you were right about that. The only work Bruner did to it was to paint its windows black and get rid of the back seat. When we opened it up, we found three bodies in the front, and twelve more stacked like cordwood in the back—all sealed in plastic."_

"How'd he keep the junkyard workers from noticing the smell?"

"_We also found some animal skeletons under the Pinto. Bruner must have put dead animals there so he could blame the smell on them."_

"Oh-kay."

Ed drew out the work as he thought through Bruner's M.O.

_Rape and kill the girl… wrap her up good in plastic and tape… head to the junkyard when no one was around and stash the body in his car… knowing no one would be interested enough to check out an old Pinto… but Lennie and I collared him seven years ago… shouldn't someone have wondered where he was and why his car was still there?_

He asked those questions of Donna.

"_The owner said the car wasn't in anyone's way and Bruner didn't look like someone he wanted to cross. After a while, he just forgot about it."_

All Ed could do was say "Damn."

"_I'm with you on that,"_ Loudoun told him. _"Now, we've got fifteen bodies to ID."_

"Fifteen families who'll get some closure. Good for you, Donna."

"_Like I said, Ed—some of that's due to you. My partner and I were handed this when a woman who suspected her daughter was one of Bruner's victims requested a reexamination of the case. I remembered you talking about Bruner at McMullan's; you said the DA had subpoenaed his hack record, but Bruner confessed before you got to sort through them."_

Ed nodded.

"I remember. Lennie and I were both thankful about that."

"_Those records weren't with the rest of the case evidence. It turned out the DA's office still had them in storage. Once I tracked them down, my partner and I mapped every one of Bruner's fares for the three years previous to his arrest. That's how we found the junkyard. There was a cluster of pick-ups in the area, but no drop-offs. The rest of it was canvassing—showing Bruner's photo around until someone recognized him."_

Although Donna couldn't see him, Ed nodded again to acknowledge her good work.

"_So,"_ she continued, "_I'm calling to say I'm glad you mentioned those records, and that I owe you at least a dinner for them. Want to pick a restaurant and a date?"_

Ed leaned to his right so he could see the window in the lieutenant's office.

_It's still a mess out there… a miserable night to go out… maybe sometime next week… of course, it never hurts to try…._

"Where are you now?" he asked.

"_The junkyard, watching a tow truck put the Pinto on the hook."_

Long experience brought the scene to mind: Loudoun huddled under whatever cover she could find, a Styrofoam cup of bad coffee in hand mostly for its warmth, wishing the tow truck driver would hurry the hell up so she could get out of her wet coat, dry her hair, and fill the chill inside with something warm and nourishing.

"So," he asked, "you're saying you could use some hot food ASAP?"

Her bright chuckle let Ed know his guess was on the mark. His suggestion of a Creole place he liked near Washington Heights was equally well received.

"Great," he told Donna. "The second I get off here, I'll meet you there."

Steps of the State Supreme Courthouse for New York County  
60 Centre Street, Manhattan  
23 September 2010

E.A.D.A. Jack McCoy had politely vetoed the suggestion that he plaster "McCoy for DA" stickers on his briefcase and motorcycle helmet.

_Bad enough there is one on my motorcycle… I'm still not comfortable with the idea of being D.A… and I hate the electioneering—glad-handing, asking for donations, trying to find a balance point between getting support and being bought… Arthur lapped all this up, but it makes me gag….however, I truly think my opponent is the wrong man for the job and, with Arthur retiring after the election, I don't have much choice…._

He walked toward the courthouse on Centre Street, greeting those who called out to him, and chatting briefly with those who halted their own walks to say "Hi."

_Never know whose vote will put me over the top… God, I hate this…._

One of the people who stopped was Casey Novak, who met him on her way down the courthouse stairs.

_SVU Bureau Chief Novak… after the Beale debacle, I told Arthur she was the wrong person for the job… six weeks later, I admitted that I was wrong… Casey got her people through the shock of finding out their boss was a sexual predator and she did it without a single trial postponement… although she did transfer a couple of people out—nothing wrong with thinning the herd once in a while—damn, I just sounded like Arthur… no more cow metaphors, I promise…._

Jack stopped his progress up the stairs to talk with Casey. After they caught up on current cases and gossip, Casey brought up the matter of Jack's campaign run for District Attorney.

"I'm sure you've given some thought," she told him, "to who you'll name EADA once you're DA. I'd like to be considered for the position."

Jack snorted a laugh.

"You and several other people," he replied. "Mike Cutter, Jocelyn Carter, Alex Cabot…."

"Sounds like a bunch of C-list candidates, Jack."

Casey's lopsided smile signaled the joke. Jack managed a laugh.

"That would make you an N-lister, Casey."

She shrugged then said, "As long as my name is on the list, I'm happy. Seriously, Jack, they're all good people. You won't go wrong with any of them—"

Casey turned to head down to street level then she called to him over her shoulder.

"But I'm the one you want. See you later, Jack."

Jack shook his head at Novak's back as she departed.

_Why would I pick you, Casey? You're impetuous and headstrong… you cut corners and buck authority… and you win cases… but so do Cutter and Cabot and Carter—damn it, those three will be the 'C-listers' every time I think about them…._

His laugh echoed off the marble columns above him.

_Clever, Novak—very clever… I'll keep that and you in mind when I do make my decision…._

On the opposite side of the front steps, Randolph J. Dworkin ducked behind a marble column to call his wife.

"The Cavuto murder just went to the jury," he told her. "I think my summation was brilliant, but the proof is in the acquittal or lack thereof."

"_Hmmm,"_ Alex Borgia replied.

_That's her way of saying 'I think Cavuto's guilty….'_

Dworkin broke into a huge grin when Alex told him she had her fingers crossed for his success.

_That's how we cope… she roots for my success, not my clients…._

"You still at Family Court?" he asked her.

"_Yes. We're waiting for Judge Tomlinson to finish a child endangerment adjudication then we're up."_

"Restoration of paternal parental rights, right?"

"_Uh-uh. Mothers really should tell fathers when they decide to dump their children on the state. It would save everyone a lot of trouble."_

"At least there's no adoptive parents involved on this one."

"_Right. This one's straightforward and simple. You feel like Thai tonight or shall I thaw some of my mom's gnocchi?"_

Dworkin hid a shudder.

_I'd rather eat boiled gravel... it's pasta and filling-how does her mother ruin it? On the other hand, Alex feels the same way about my mother's pot roast… I can tell by the way she chews… and chews… and chews… and we have been out three times this week already…._

"Anything eaten at home with you," he said, "will be scrumptious."

He could almost hear Alex's smile in her reply.

"I love you, too," he told her. "See you when we get home."

Command and Control Center  
One Police Plaza  
16 February 2011

The Compstat meeting had been a good one for Inspector Anita Van Buren. Brooklyn South Narcotics' stats had improved since she had taken command six months before, and her strategies for their continued improvement had the blessing of the borough commander.

_My predecessor had a beef with the commander at Brooklyn South Homicide because he thought detectives had mishandled the murder of one of the unit's CIs… personnel from both units were at one another's throats—feuding and fighting and letting investigations slide… both commanders, three lieutenants, and a sergeant were reassigned… I was one of the ones brought in to repair the damage…._

As she left the command center, a lieutenant from BSH carrying a stack of folders under one arm fell into step with her.

"Lieutenant Sofarelli," she said in greeting, "Any news on Captain Markham's wife?"

"I got a text before the meeting started," Couch replied. " 'Boy, boy, girl—Mom & babes well.' Is it true that only triplets and above get you out of Compstat?"

"I don't know, Couch. I never tried childbirth as an excuse."

Anita's low chuckle brought a smile to Sofarelli's face.

"By the way," she added, "you did a good job filling in for Markham on such short notice. I'll let him know how well you did."

"Thank you, ma'am. I appreciate that."

They continued down the hall. Couch paused when they reached the door to the stairs.

"Oh, no," Anita told him. "I get all the exercise I need putting out fires. You go ahead if you want."

"So long as you don't mind," he replied as he reached for the door. "See you back at the house, ma'am."

Anita shook her head as she turned toward the elevator.

_I don't often wish I were young again… but I do wish certain joints didn't ache at the thought of stairs… I don't mind letting Markham know how well Couch handling the grilling today… but I won't tell him I spotted a set of cribs for the captain's exam mixed in with his Compstat reports…._

Hallway outside Manhattan SVU  
12 June 2012

Inspector Cragen was taking one last walk through his precinct house.

_Tomorrow morning, Inspector Christene Lovisolo takes command… and I get to sleep late… Tullia is taking the day off… we've made plans to do nothing we don't want to do… my first day of retirement… I hope I survive it…._

The idea of having no schedule, no duties, no responsibilities more important than emptying the kitchen garbage, still felt foreign to Cragen.

_But I plan to get used to it ASAP… I've almost thirty-seven years in… it's time I let someone else cope with this place…._

Having finished his circuit of the sixth floor, Cragen took the stairs to the seventh.

_I must admit… although I'm in decent shape… I am occasionally grateful for elevators…._

The stairway door opened across from the floor's memorial wall. As Don paused to consider the photos enshrined there, the names of those killed during his tenure came to mind.

_Ted Savarese, hit while directing traffic at St. Michael's… Fred__ Tierney and Tammy White, shot by Jason Meade… Allen Jackson, heart attack while working a jewelry store robbery… Greg Larsen, one of seventeen killed by a suicide bomber at the Gay Pride Parade two years ago… and Ayaan Magan, shot from ambush while responding to a domestic violence report just this spring… so many of them… too many of them… I pray no one else ever joins them… but nothing in this day and age helps me believe that prayer will be answered…._

That sober thought accompanied Don as he headed to Robbery. There, he stopped outside the entrance to observe the detectives for a few minutes before he moved on to SVU.

_Thirteen years since I first set foot in this squadroom… other than a coat of paint or two and some upgrades in equipment, nothing has changed—same layout, same furniture—hell, the coffeepot even looks the same… but, the people—that's where all the change has been…._

Don hooked his hands behind his back…

…_never put your hands in your pockets while wearing the uniform of the NYPD…._

… and thought about those no longer around.

_Fred, Tammy, and Greg, of course… and Elliot, putting in for a detective squad in Queens to be closer to home and family… Olivia, coming in with a big grin and a diamond ring and her retirement papers… Anita let me have it for that—like I knew those two would leave so soon after she took command… Donna, Dan, Jason, Linda, and all the other short-timers serving their two-and-out… Couch passing the lieutenant's exam then being posted to Brooklyn South Homicide… and then making captain and getting Bronx SVU—youngest CO in the Bronx…._

Don allowed himself a big grin.

_Damn, I'm proud of him…and I can't forget Munch retiring to buy McMullen's… I'm not supposed to know it, but he's hosting a retirement party for me there tonight…. I guess Tullia will call and suggest we stop by there for soda on our way home… I'll have to remember to look surprised… then Howie retired on a medical—bone cancer caught early enough to save his life but not soon enough to save his leg… he still beats me at golf… heck, so does Joe… not only is my handicap bad, but I play badly against the handicapped…._

He quickly swallowed a laugh then Don turned his attention to the detective who were present in the squadroom.

_Three familiar faces… Chester Lake, Judith Fontana, Fin Tutuola, all busy with their paperwork… when John retired, Fin partnered up with Judith—Anita tried to pair the two of them with younger detectives, but they both refused… Judith said she'd had her fill of training and I'll bet Fin felt the same way… when Judith retired back in January, Captain Laksin told me Fin asked to work solo, but Bill made him take on a younger partner—Tommy Flanagan, as Irish as they come… the two of them broke a child smuggling ring just last month..._

He watched Fin, seated opposite his red-headed partner, as the two of them examined crime scene photos on their monitors.

_Fin, the grand old grouch of SVU… and yet so gentle with children… now, when Elliot left, it was Chester who took on the role of mentor for the newcomers… both Anita and Bill tell me he does a great job of getting them through their first few cases… another one of the good people—no, make that the damn fine people I've had the honor to serve with…._

That thought made his eyes sting. Don pulled his handkerchief from his pocket then, after checking to be certain no one was watching, he dabbed at his tears.

_I am going to miss this place… but it's time to give the reins to someone else…._


End file.
